


Taking Trust Into Account

by cosette141



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Hurt Neal Caffrey, Hurt/Comfort, Taking Trust Into Account, White Collar - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-07-17 14:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 48,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16097786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosette141/pseuds/cosette141
Summary: When a five-year-old crime becomes Neal and Peter's new case, Neal's past catches up with him; not only had he been involved in the crime, the criminal he framed for it has a grudge. Can Peter connect the dots before Neal's consequences cost him his life?





	1. Chapter 1

Neal raised his head, perking up for the first time in over an hour. He'd been fiddling with the FBI pen he took from Peter's desk. Allegedly. Peter didn't know it was missing just yet.

He was sitting in the FBI conference room, surrounded by agents at the table. Reese Hughes and Peter were standing at the head of the table, the flat screen monitor behind them flashing images of people, places, things. Just as usual. Someone bad did something bad somewhere, and Peter and the FBI wanted to catch them.

Neal hadn't been paying all that much attention. These criminals didn't seem very hardcore and he'd lost interest more than forty five minutes ago. A bank had been robbed: Midtown Mutual. Well, that's not exactly true; it had been broken into, but nothing had been taken. Security caught the perpetrators: two teenage thieves trying to score big. The bank had been searched and accounted for, and labeled as untouched. Nothing had been taken.

Neal didn't quite understand why Peter and Hughes cared so much that two teenagers tried and failed to rob a bank, and he didn't know why the FBI was wasting their time on it. Neal had focused on twiddling the pen between his fingers. His back was stiff from sitting for so long and he longed to get up. Move around.

 _Do_  something.

But then a face flashed across the screen and Neal froze.

That face was hard to forget.

Feeling his heart beating a little faster, Neal tuned back into what Hughes and Peter were saying.

"—and fled the scene." finished Peter, pointing to the man on the screen, whose face had very nearly given Neal a heart attack. Neal suddenly wished he'd been paying attention. Peter clicked the screen again, but the image of the man was still burned in Neal's eyes.

Dark hair. Piercing black eyes. Deep-toned skin and teeth stark white against his complexion. Neal put the pen back inside his suit jacket pocket and clasped his hands together. Paranoia tickled his neck and he threw a quick look over his shoulder, as if the man was skulking somewhere behind him. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the feeling.

What the hell was that man doing in New York?

"Neal?"

Neal's looked up. Every eye in the room was on him. Neal cleared his throat as his eyes met Peter's. He seemed to have asked Neal a question.

"Sorry, what?" asked Neal.

Peter's eyes narrowed as he fought to roll them in irritation. "Is it too much to ask for you to pay attention? I asked you for your  _expertise_ ," said Peter, drawing out the word with the slightest hint of annoyance, "on this. Two kids try and fail to rob a bank. This ex-criminal, known by the alias 'Maverick', is seen leaving the employee-only, secure hallway of the same bank he robbed five years earlier, the heist that put him in jail."

"Well," said Neal slowly, leaning, closer to the monitor, trying to shake off the fear and focus on the facts. He ran the scenario through his head again, and it clicked. "It was a planned failure," he said, leaning back into his seat and looking at Peter.

"What?"

"I—I've allegedly done something like this," said Neal, still trying to get over his initial shock from seeing the man.  _What was Maverick doing with two teenaged thieves?_ And bad ones, at that? Realizing that Peter, and the rest of the room full of agents, were waiting for a further explanation, Neal shook himself and continued, "A two-man con. One man runs the con, breaks and enters and leaves with nothing. And, in this case, the first 'man' would be those teenage kids. When they get away, the mark checks to see what's missing. When the obvious isn't missing, as in the money in Midtown, they look… elsewhere."

"They look elsewhere? For what?" asked Hughes.

"Something of greater value," finished Peter, crossing his arms.

"And the second man is watching to see where they look. And just like that, he knows their most valuable items and how to get to them. It's a security check."

"But this is a bank," an agent piped up. "Money is the most valuable thing there."

"Not necessarily," said Peter, narrowing his eyes and his voice growing distant as he mulled over his thoughts. "True, money is the obvious score. But money takes up space and one person will have trouble carrying more than a few million dollars."

"I'd say check the safe deposit boxes," said Neal. "People like to entrust their secrets in banks." He shifted in the chair to throw a quick look out the window. Adrenaline thrummed in his veins.

Peter smiled. "Good work, Neal."

Neal didn't return the smile. He just pulled his gaze back around and shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Because although Peter knew who that man on the screen was, he didn't know what that man had done. What he was  _capable_  of doing.

And he didn't know that that man had nearly killed Neal not too long ago.

"Neal," said Peter, tearing Neal from his thoughts. Neal looked up and realized that the agents have left the conference room. He was sitting alone at the table. Peter had hesitated at the door.

"Yeah, Peter?" asked Neal, smoothly regaining his composure.

"You spending the night here?" asked Peter with a raised eyebrow.

"No," said Neal, getting up from his seat. "Sorry. Lost in thought, I guess." He hastily grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair.

Peter looked at him skeptically. "Do you want to share any of those thoughts with me?"

Neal raised an eyebrow. "Not particularly, no."

Peter rolled his eyes. Neal muttered a casual 'goodnight' and gathered a file and his hat from his desk, making his way out of the building.

Neal hailed a taxi and spent the car ride in silence, staring out the window at the darkened streets, feeling like he was seeing that face in every shadow. And suddenly, he was diving back into his past, to the last day he saw that man.

* * *

_Five Years Ago_

"Neal, come on!"

Neal descended the last of the rungs of the ladder, hitting the ground gracefully, almost cat-like. It was hard to see through the darkness, but he followed Mozzie's voice.

"Over here!" Mozzie hissed, his impatience coloring his words.

"Sorry," apologized Neal. "I thought I was being followed," he admitted, looking around again.

"Were you?" asked Mozzie, and Neal could see the stark concern in his eyes.

"No," said Neal, though not entirely believing himself. "I don't think so."

"Good," said Mozzie, visibly relieved. "We don't have that big of a window, here."

Neal and Mozzie started their way down the sewage tunnel. It hadn't been used in years, but the odor was still present. Neal wrinkled his nose, adjusting his grip on the bag he was carrying. Mozzie was almost struggling to keep up with his pace, as his legs had to work twice as hard to keep up with Neal's stride.

Neal sighed, trying to see any light ahead of him. Mozzie had a flashlight, but it wasn't enough to see very far ahead. This tunnel led to a manhole in the alleyway behind Midtown Mutual, a bank in downtown Manhattan. It was his and Mozzie's mark.

They'd spent close to two months casing this bank to find a way in. Although not glamorous, the sewage tunnel was the most inconspicuous way inside. The alley led to the back door of the bank. There was an incredibly high-tech security system on the lock, but Neal and Mozzie didn't have time to crack it. So..

That's where Kate came in.

She'd been hired at the museum four weeks ago and had been working there since. She was inside now, waiting for Neal and Mozzie to give her the signal that they were out back.

"Sixty seconds," said Mozzie.

Neal was nervous. He could have sworn he'd been followed. He had that instinct in him; that gut feeling. He wasn't normally wrong. Neal had taken a different route to the tunnel, shaking off his tail—if he even  _had_  a tail—and was sure he wasn't followed all the way here. But even so…

Neal shook himself. He wasn't followed. He was just paranoid.

"Send her the signal," said Mozzie. He stopped walking and Neal nearly ran into him.  _Get a hold of yourself_ , he told himself firmly. He sent Kate the text and he and Mozzie stood in front of the rusty ladder, waiting for her reply. After a moment, she replied with a  _Go_  text and he and Mozzie nodded at each other. Neal unzipped the bag and handed Mozzie a uniform, and Neal slipped his own on over his clothes.

Neal climbed up the ladder, now in pitch darkness, only stopping when his head collided with the metal door. He swore under his breath.

"You okay, kid?"

"Fine," mumbled Neal. He reached up and pushed the metal plate aside and felt the cool, city breeze ripple through his hair. He lifted himself out of the hole, tossing the bag onto the ground. He offered a hand to Mozzie, who accepted it and Neal pulled him up. Neal scooped up the bag and Mozzie closed the manhole quietly. They approached the door, which was held open with a key card. Neal opened the door and took the key card, smiling. It was Kate's. Her innocent smile grinned up at him. He slipped the card into his jacket pocket and held the door for Mozzie.

The hallway they entered was dimly lit. The carpeting muffled their footsteps. Neal and Mozzie made their way down, both donned in security uniforms.

"Third door on the left," whispered Mozzie.

Neal and he turned into the open doorway. It led down another corridor. High ceilings stood tall above them and the space felt open and empty; it was an ironic feeling for a building that held such value. A few employees passed them, but Neal only nodded, subtly greeting whoever walked by. If he didn't give them a reason to be suspicious, they wouldn't be.

Neal approached the next door, sliding the key card smoothly through the electronic lock and the door opened silently for him. They continued down the hallway until they were stopped by a man walking toward them. He was an employee, his name tag reading  _Roger Allen_.

Keeping his composure, Neal nodded at the man, but maintained his brisk pace. The man's eyebrows kneaded together. "Wait," he said, and Neal and Mozzie reluctantly stopped and turned. "What are you two doing in this corridor? Security should be outside this hallway." he said, skepticism inching into his tone.

"Mr. Allen, how are you?" said Neal calmly. "We were called to assess an issue."

"An issue?" asked Allen. His eyebrows narrowed further and he shook his head. "There is no issue. I would have heard about it."

"I assure you," said Neal, "we were approached by one of your employees—"

"Oh, thank god!"

Neal, Mozzie and Allen turned to see Kate rushing toward them, out of the vault hallway. She was dressed in a pantsuit, her shirt cut a little lower than it probably should have been, and it wasn't something that went unnoticed by Allen.

"And who are you?" asked Allen, his gaze drifting a few inches lower than her face. Neal felt a protective anger course through him even as it worked the slight distraction Kate had been going for.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Allen, Sir," she said, a little out of breath. "I asked security to come and fix something for me." she said a little sheepishly.

"Fix something?" Unfortunately, it seemed that even a low-neckline wasn't going to be enough to distract Allen. "Miss, have I seen you here before?"

Kate lifted her name tag. "Melissa," she said. "I just started a few weeks ago, but I accidentally locked myself out of my office and I didn't want to alert anyone," she said, looking a little ashamed of herself.

"Oh," said Allen, the skepticism leaving his eyes. "Well I'm sure you only need one of these guards to help you with that," said Allen. He gestured to Mozzie. "You can resume your post outside, I'm sure."

"Of course." Mozzie nodded, and Allen extended his hand toward the door, as if leading Mozzie away with him. Without a second glance, Mozzie turned and left with Allen, leaving Neal and Kate alone.

Kate sighed, running a hand nervously through her hair. "What do we do now?" she asked, staring after Mozzie. "This plan doesn't work unless you  _both_  go into that vault together!"

"It's okay," said Neal, putting a hand to the small of her back, leading her down the hallway toward the vault. She walked with him, and Neal used her key card to get past the next door, looking casually around, assuring that he had no witnesses. "I can do it. We can't get as much with just me carrying it, but we'll get something."

"Neal…"

"Kate," he whispered. "Trust me."

"Neal—"

Neal suddenly pulled her to him and kissed her, cutting off her words. She melted into him, and they both seemed to forget about the heist for a moment. Neal pulled away and leaned his forehead to hers. "I've got this, Kate." He clasped her hands gingerly in his as an attempt to still her shaking fingers.

"Okay."

Neal stroked her cheek with his thumb, and kissed her again. Neal watched as Kate started back to her office, ready to perform the next phase of their heist. The easy part was getting Neal and Mozzie inside.

The hard part was getting them  _out_.

Neal continued on his way to the vault. He wasn't concerned about being seen; Kate turned off all the cameras and the vault hallway only had one guard. Neal and Mozzie had changed his schedule the week beforehand so they had a half an hour window where there would be no guard.

Neal made his way to the vault and knelt before the steel door. This lock was a Prism; difficult, but not impossible. Neal pulled on thin black gloves and took out his phone and headphones. Lifting his phone to the door, he slowly twisted the lock until he heard three faint clicks. He cracked it quite faster than he thought he would have.

Grinning to himself as the lock clicked, Neal pulled the door open, feeling his heart rush at the idea of walking into a room housing millions of dollars. There was no better feeling. To be surrounded by so much wealth…

Nothing was more perfect.

It was a small room, built with metal-plated walls and two single bar lights on the ceiling. Shelves lined two of the walls, cash stacked high on all three. The room even smelled like money. Neal smiled, feeling his heart jump in excitement. The fourth wall of the room held hundreds of small lockers for clients who entrusted their money or possessions of great worth to the bank. But none of this was what made Neal freeze.

Someone was already in the vault.

For the same reason he was.

Neal stopped dead. The man before him was dark-skinned, with eyes that must have been black. But that wasn't what froze Neal. In his right hand, he held a gun.

And it was aimed at Neal.

Neal slowly raised his hands. "Don't shoot," he said hesitantly, starting to inch backward.

"Shut the door." ordered the man.

"That's alright," said Neal, continuing to back away. "I think I'll just leave you to what you were doing and be on my way."

"I said  _shut the door_." The man cocked the gun.

Reluctantly, Neal shut the door. He turned back to the thief.

"Who are you?" the man demanded.

"Obviously," said Neal, "just like you. A  _thief_."

"That doesn't answer my question." The man's grip on the gun tightened, and Neal's heart thudded in his chest.

"You're wasting your own time," said Neal. "If you want to take the money, take it."

Suddenly, the man lunged at Neal, shoving him against the wall, pinning him. Neal struggled against the hold as the man patted him down, looking for something. A moment later, he pulled out Neal's wallet and released him, and Neal fell against the wall. The man was incredibly strong.

The man opened Neal's wallet. "What, no ID?"

"Never bring identity on a job," said Neal, out of breath. He slowly straightened.

"What are you doing here?"

"I told you," said Neal, massaging his chest. "I was here to steal some money. Why else?" Neal subtly moved closer to the door again.

The man laughed darkly. "What else? There are some things that are far more valuable than just cash inside a bank vault."

"So," said Neal slowly, still very aware of the gun aimed at him, "then take whatever it is that you want and  _go_." Neal was still a good two feet away from the door. There was no way he could get to it before the man fired.

"I don't think I can do that." the man said. "You're a witness. You've seen my face. Heard my voice. That's a liability in my book."

The man moved closer and Neal backed slightly into the wall. "You can't kill me in here."

"And why not?" asked the man, the gun inches from his chest.

"Fingerprints. Gunpowder." Neal cocked his head. "This might be a vault but they could steal hear a gunshot. And that… doesn't have a silencer on it."

"Alright," the man said, lowering his weapon. "So then I'll just strangle you."

Neal involuntarily backed further into the wall. "That still doesn't solve the fingerprint issue."

"You know," said the man, taking a step closer to Neal. "I was wondering what you were doing at the bank so often."

Neal's eyes widened. He suddenly flashed back to the paranoia that had been prickling his neck the whole way here the past few weeks. "It was you?  _You_  were following me?" He hadn't been paranoid; he  _had_  been followed.

"You were a pretty crappy conman not to have noticed."

Anger and offense stirred in Neal's chest. "Used to think there was an honor among people like us."

The man grinned maliciously. "That was your mistake." He raised the gun and pulled back the hammer. Neal turned his head away and braced himself.

Suddenly, the lights in the vault went out. Neal shut his eyes in both relief and fear. It was Kate's signal that he had sixty seconds before he had to get the hell out of the there. The lights flashed back on and the man looked up at them, distracted. Neal took advantage of his confusion and dove for the door, pulling it open and running. He heard heavy footsteps following him just as the fire alarm sounded; that would have been Mozzie. He was still following the plan.

Neal sprinted down the hallway, but a hand grasped his shoulder and pulled him backward, throwing him to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the gate before them shut down to the ground. He and this man were trapped in the hallway. The gate was metal, the rungs too tight to escape.

Neal hit the ground hard, his shoulder striking the marble. The man was suddenly above him, his weight crushing Neal, and he hit Neal across the face. His muscles rippled, his force so strong Neal felt as if the man took a brick to his head. He hit him a second time. Third.

He must have lost his gun.

Neal coughed, his nose broken and blood streaming down his face. He tried to move out from underneath the man, but his knee was pressing harshly down on Neal's chest, making breathing almost impossible. Neal groaned as the man hit him again, writhing under the man's vice-like grip.

"Stop!"

It was Kate's voice. She was on the opposite side of the gate. She was supposed to be outside by now, but must have realized that Neal didn't make it out in time.

"K—" began Neal, but the man hit him again, and Neal's head whiplashed on the ground. His vision flickered.

"Stop it!" screamed Kate. She was yanking on the gate, desperately trying to get to Neal.

"Run!" yelled Neal as the man reared up for another hit, and Neal moved his head, so the man's hand struck the ground. He wailed in pain.

Neal pushed the man off of him, pulling himself to his feet, and immediately assessed the hallway. There was only one door. Head pounding, Neal ran to it and ripped it open, suddenly dizzy. He hit the side of the doorframe, his sense of balance completely off. The office he entered was windowless, and Neal's heart dropped. No windows meant no escape. Neal shut and locked the door, diving over the desk and tearing open the drawers, looking for a weapon, anything, through his blurry, almost double-vision. He wiped his face on his sleeve, staining it bright red. Neal heard the door rattle in its frame; the man was trying to get in.

Neal grabbed the phone and dialed a number he knew by heart. A moment later, he heard a tired answer on the other side of the line.

"Special Agent Peter Burke."

"Get to Midtown Mutual now," gasped Neal. The man pounded on the door, trying to break it down. "It's being robbed."

Peter must have heard the urgency in Neal's voice, and thankfully, didn't actually recognize it as Neal's voice. "Who is this?" Neal heard him shout an order to someone.

"I work here," said Neal, the fear in his voice present. The alarm was still going off and Neal knew Peter could hear it on his line as well. The thief pounded harder. "Please, he's going to… he's going to kill me."

Just then, the door slammed open, hitting the wall loudly. Three bullets fired from the gun and Neal ducked under the desk, the phone still pressed against his ear. Neal cried out as one of the bullets hit him in the shoulder. He grasped it and cringed.

Guess the guy found his gun.

"Is that gunfire?" exclaimed Peter. "Were you hit?" Neal heard him shout to someone, "Get a team to Midtown Mutual bank, now!"

"Drop the phone!" the man demanded from the other side of the desk. Neal didn't say anything, and kicked the desk as hard as he could, knocking it over, straight into the man. Neal dropped the phone and dove over the desk, knocking the monitor to the ground and it shattered. Neal ran past the man, back down the hallway and into the vault, stumbling over himself more than once. Things that were far away seemed to be right in front of him. Great. A concussion.

There were no security guards down this hallway yet. Mozzie or Kate would have proceeded to phase four of the heist: distraction. Neal could only hope that Mozzie's inner firebug was under control.

Back inside the vault, Neal scooped up the bag he originally brought. His shoulder was burning, dripping blood down his shirt. He was careful to watch it, make sure it didn't drop to the floor. If his DNA was found here, it would ruin everything. Tearing off the sleeve of his jacket, Neal quickly pulled it right around his shoulder, securing it with his teeth. His lightheadedness was getting worse, the concussion and blood loss taking it's toll.

Ignoring the agony in his shoulder, Neal started stuffing money into the bag. Ten thousand. Twenty. Fifty. One million. One point five million. His hands fumbled with the money, his body trembling.

Just as he zipped the bags closed, the man appeared again at the doorway of the vault.

"Hold it right there." demanded the man. Neal whipped around. The man was holding his side where Neal had hit him with the desk. Neal's heart pounded in his chest.

The man's gun was missing again; probably empty. He stood at the door with only his anger and pure muscle as a weapon, and yet it was enough to make Neal stay put. "The FBI is on the way," said Neal. "It might be a good idea for you to get lost." he said, his breath shallow.

"You called the  _Feds_?" the man asked incredulously.

Neal just smiled cockily, backing into the shelf for support. He felt heavy. "Well," said Neal, "then, as I suggested before,  _leave_." Neal stressed, his eyes darting around, trying to figure out his own escape.

"Not before I take care of you."

Neal tried to blink away the blurriness in his vision, and calculate how long it's been since he called Agent Burke. He assumed it would take around ten minutes for the FBI to storm the gates. He spent maybe five packing the money. That left five more. There was only one way he was going to stall this man for that long.

Neal dove forward and tackled the man to the ground. The man hadn't seen it coming, and lost his balance quickly, his weight playing against him. He grunted as he struck the ground, Neal on top of him. But even with the element of surprise, Neal was no match. The man tossed him aside easily, and Neal landed on his shoulder, crying out in pain.

"FBI!"

Neal painfully pulled himself to his feet, stumbling into the wall next to him. Distant yells told him the FBI had arrived. Which was much quicker than he'd expected. Neal pushed himself off the wall, but the man grabbed him around the ankle and slammed him down again. Dazed, Neal looked up and realized that he was right next to the shelf inside the vault. Grabbing it with both hands, Neal yanked as hard as he could. It tilted and crashed down, hitting the man hard. He fell back with a yell and Neal scrambled to his feet.

The man struggled, pinned underneath the metal shelf, and swore viciously as it crushed his leg. Neal dropped the money-filled bag next to him. He started to step over the man, when the man caught his ankle.

"I'm gonna kill you," he spat.

Neal shook his leg free and wiped more blood off his face, and running down the hallway, falling against the wall with every few steps. Kate suddenly appeared at the gate.

"Security is still caught up with the fire, but the FBI is here!" she said as she pulled the gate open. She looked at Neal's face, and gasped. "Oh, my god, Neal—"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," lied Neal. "Let's get out of here!"

"—and he said he was one of your employees."

Neal froze, then grabbing Kate by the arm, he pushed her into one of the offices in the hallway, his head swimming a bit by the sudden movement. Neal grasped the door frame to keep his balance. They peered through the crack. Neal'd heard Agent Burke's voice, and he strained to see him. It only took a moment for Burke to walk into view.

"That's him," whispered Neal, cringing as his shoulder burned again. "That's Burke."

"Neal, we have to get out of here!" hissed Kate, tugging on his arm.

"Wait." said Neal. He wanted to be sure the man wasn't getting away.

"We found him, Sir! Pinned beneath a shelf." yelled an agent.

"Care to tell us what happened here?" asked Burke to the thief.

"I was set up!" the man growled painfully.

"Yeah, yeah," said Burke, nodding, watching another agent unzip the bag of money. "I hear that one a lot."

"I'm not kidding! This son of a—"

"You are under arrest. Anything you say can and will—"

"I was  _framed_ —"

And suddenly a gunshot fired, the bullet sailing inches from Burke's head. The agent dropped to the ground, and three other agents jumped onto the thief, securing his gun.

"Release your weapon!" a dark-skinned agent yelled.

"Got it, Jones?" asked Burke, pulling himself to his feet.

"Yeah," said Agent Jones, who was furiously inspecting the gun he took from the man. "This is  _mine_!" he exclaimed, checking the empty holster at his waist where the man must have snagged it. He shook off his anger and looked back at Burke. "You alright, Boss?"

"Yeah," said Burke, straightening his jacket and shifting his gaze back down to the thief. "Now we have you on stolen federal property, attempted robbery,  _and_ attempted murder of an FBI agent. Fantastic." He leaned down toward the struggling man with a pen, pad of paper and smug smile. "Anything else you want to try before we finish up here?"

Kate yanked on Neal's arm and pulled him out of the office.

They sprinted down the hallway, hindered by Neal's lack of balance, backtracking the way they came. They burst through the door outside and Mozzie waved to them. Mozzie jumped in the manhole, hurrying down the ladder. Kate pushed Neal toward it and followed him down. Neal winced as his shoulder strained to hang on to the rungs. His vision was only a blur now; he was losing too much blood.

"Neal!" exclaimed Mozzie, as he shined his phone light onto Neal's face, taking in the blood dripping down his skin.

"Moz," said Neal, shielding his eyes from the piercing light. "Let's get out of here," he said, and he started down the tunnel. His vision was graying out and he knew his consciousness would be next. Kate and Mozzie grabbed him and helped him down. No one stopped until they were well over a mile away from the bank, and they exited out of a manhole in the middle of an empty parking lot to an abandoned warehouse. Neal painfully pulled himself up, exhausted, barely able to keep hold of the rungs of the ladder. He laid down on the concrete, the coolness soothing his shoulder and settling his spinning head.

"Neal," gasped Mozzie, taking sight of his face in the moonlight. "What the hell happened to you?"

Breathing shallowly, feeling as if the very earth was shifting beneath him, Neal said, "We weren't alone stealing from that bank."

"Someone was there," said Kate, her voice shaking. "Some huge guy, he was hitting Neal." She choked on Neal's name.

"Who was he?" asked Mozzie.

"I don't know," whispered Neal, his voice cracking. A sharp spasm of pain shot through him and he winced violently. "He—He shot me."

Both Kate and Mozzie's eyes found the dark bloodstain on Neal's shoulder. Kate covered her mouth with her hand. "Neal—Neal, we've got to get you to a hospital."

"Nowhere around here." said Neal, his voice firm.

"Why not?"

"I called Burke."

" _What_?" exclaimed Mozzie.

"He was the only… the only FBI contact number I know by heart." Neal shut his eyes, suddenly hot. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He wanted everything to stop spinning.

"Why the hell—" began Mozzie, but Neal continued.

"I trapped the other thief," said Neal, his breath short, "and left a full bag of cash next to him."

"You framed him," said Kate hollowly. "And you wanted the FBI to catch him."

Neal took a shuddering, painful breath. He tried to get up, but shifting even the slightest bit made him groan in pain. He fell back to the ground, clutching his shoulder.

"Mozzie," said Kate desperately to Mozzie. "Get the car!"

Mozzie stood without another word and ran to the car, parked a few yards away.

"Neal," said Kate, but her voice seemed so far away. She pressed both of her hands over the wound in his shoulder, making him cry out, his voice cracking. His breathing doubled in speed and his eyes slipped closed.

"Neal!"

The desperation in her voice made him crack his eyes open again. The pain had spread, and now consumed his entire body and his vision was just mere blotches of color. "I'm sorry."

"No, Neal. Don't."

Neal didn't respond.

"Neal," she said, tears in her eyes. "Stop it, Neal."

The car pulled up alongside them and Kate called his name again, but Neal had already drifted off into oblivion.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hey."

Neal shook himself from his daze. The taxi driver was staring at him. "This is your place, right?"

"Yeah," said Neal after a moment. He grabbed the file and his hat. "Thanks." He handed the man some cash and slid out of the car.

Neal made his way to his apartment, unlocking June's door and climbing the stairs mechanically. Walking into his apartment, it didn't really surprise him to see Mozzie sitting at his table, drinking a bottle of Neal's wine.

"Wine?" He gestured to an empty glass; he must have been waiting for Neal to arrive.

"Thanks." Neal dropped the file down on the table and poured himself a glass of the wine, filling it a bit higher than he usually did. Neal sighed and sat down.

"Rough day at the office?" asked Mozzie.

Neal looked at Mozzie. Neal's expression alone made Mozzie put his glass down. "Neal, what?"

"He's out." said Neal simply. He downed the glass of wine and set the glass back on the table.

"What?" asked Mozzie, watching Neal with concern. "Who's out?"

"Maverick."

" _Maverick_?" repeated Mozzie, his eyebrows shooting up. His expression darkened. "What? How?"

"Guess his sentence wasn't as long as we thought." Neal filled his glass again, pouring it even higher than the first, but Mozzie took the bottle from him and set it on the other side of the table. Neal didn't even react.

"How do you know?" asked Mozzie. "He… He didn't  _find_  you, did he?"

"No," Neal shook his head, and he saw Mozzie relax a little. "He cased Midtown yesterday. He's Peter's new case."

"Did you tell him?"

"Tell him what, Moz?" asked Neal. He'd already thought it through; telling Peter would be a mistake.

"Um," said Mozzie, in an isn't-it-obvious tone. "Maybe that this man has been dreaming of hunting you down for the past five  _years_?"

"I can't."

"You can't?" asked Mozzie incredulously. Neal picked up his wine glass again but Mozzie pushed it back down to the table, the wine left in the glass splattering and staining the sleeve of Neal's shirt. Neal slowly met Mozzie's gaze, and Mozzie said, "What do you mean, you  _can't_? I'm sure the Suit would want to know!"

"Moz," Neal said, looking at him tiredly. "If I tell Peter what happened, I have to tell him  _everything_  that happened."

Mozzie sat back in his chair. "Oh."

"Can't quite tell my FBI handler a past crime I was never charged for." Neal retrieved the glass again and downed the rest.

"Easy!" exclaimed Mozzie.

Neal raised an eyebrow. "You want to talk to  _me_  about drinking?"

Mozzie sighed. "Neal, they charged Maverick for that crime. You have nothing to worry —"

Neal pushed away from the table, his chair screeching as he stood. "I framed him, Moz! If he sees me, he'll spill!" He ran a hand through his hair and glared out the darkened window.

"What's he doing back at Midtown Mutual anyway?" asked Mozzie. That's what Neal had been contemplating in his taxi ride. Why go back to the place you were arrested? Why steal from  _that specific bank_  when you can get money anywhere? Any other bank?

Neal froze.

That was  _it_.

_"If you want the money, then take it."_

_"There are things of much greater value inside a bank vault."_

"He wasn't there for money." said Neal suddenly, whipping away from the window. "That day… He was there for something else." He looked at Mozzie.

"Something  _else_?" asked Mozzie, cocking his head. "Neal—"

"In the vault…" said Neal, grasping the back of the chair. "He told me there were things he wanted, not just cash."

"Like what?"

"Could be anything. Safety deposit boxes can hold pretty much anything." Neal sat back in his seat and carded his fingers through his hair again. What could Maverick want? What's worth that much of a risk?

"So there's something in that specific bank," said Mozzie, "and you prevented him from stealing it that night."

Neal reached for his drink. "And now, fresh out of jail, he's going to try again." He downed the contents in one tilt of his head. They were both quiet for a moment then, contemplating.

"But why case the  _bank_?" asked Neal, almost to himself. "Why waste time? He was seen on a security camera. He'd thrown two amateurs in to run the security, I get that. But why get yourself caught on tape?" Neal reached for the file he'd tossed on the table and opened it, flipping it around for Mozzie. Mozzie read the page and looked back at Neal. He shrugged.

"Could be rusty."

Neal leveled him with a look. "He's had five years to think this over. He's not going to screw it up."

Mozzie scrutinized the file. "Well, throwing the amateurs in means that he's concerned that the security had been upgraded while he was locked up."

"Still sloppy." said Neal. "He didn't seem sloppy to me." Neal massaged his neck, propping his elbows on the table.

Mozzie laid the file back on the table and looked at Neal for a long time, a long gaze that Neal did his best not to squirm under. "Neal… You've got to tell the suit." Mozzie swallowed. "I don't want you anywhere near that guy."

Neal looked up, meeting Mozzie's eyes. Was Mozzie…  _scared_? He could count on one hand the times he'd seen his friend seem this scared. That night five years ago was one, and when his carrier Pigeon, Estelle, was a week late in delivering a message. Neal tried to shake off his own fear. There was only a small chance that Maverick even  _knew_  Neal was in New York now. Though if Neal and Peter were working this case, that chance grew… Neal swallowed. "Moz, I can take care of myself—"

"You always say that." said Mozzie harshly. "And you remember what happened that night."

"Moz—"

"Neal, you almost died!"

Neal and Mozzie were quiet, both of them going back to that moment. Mozzie broke the silence first. "After it happened, I ran a background check on him. He kills  _everyone he works with_. He's a murderer, Neal. No one alive lived to tell his tale, not until he was thrown in jail. And still, he's a ghost. And as the one person to ever get him arrested, I'm guessing he's gonna be a little pissed off. You cannot let him find you!"

"Moz, I told you," stressed Neal. "I can't tell Peter what happened! If I do, I could go straight back to jail. I'm not doing any more time." Aside from the painful death Maverick might give him, telling Peter wouldn't be that much better. Telling Peter almost guaranteed a one-way ticket straight back to prison. And prison was… Neal shivered. He wasn't going back. He couldn't.

"I'm sure Peter would overlook—"

"It's not necessarily Peter I'm worried about," said Neal. "It's Hughes. He doesn't like me as it is, Moz."

Mozzie wordlessly tapped his now-empty glass.

"I'll just stay in the van," said Neal, facing Mozzie for the first time in minutes. "I won't show my face," he said firmly, locking eyes with his friend.

"Neal, you can't control that! You know you can't." Mozzie sighed. "If you won't tell the Suit for you, tell him for Kate."

Neal looked at him. "...Kate? Moz, Kate's-"

"Dead," said Mozzie, nodding. "But I don't think she wants you to join her."

Neal was quiet for a long time. "Okay," he said at last. "I'll tell Peter tomorrow." Mozzie sighed in relief.

Neal stood to change his ruined shirt, turning his back to Mozzie. He was glad Mozzie was a bit tipsy. Because Neal wasn't going to tell Peter; he couldn't. He wasn't going back to prison. He didn't like lying to Mozzie, but he preferred lying to his friend than to scare him as much as he must have all those years ago.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!!! Thank you guys so much for the favorites and comments! :)

"Neal."

Neal looked up from where he was sitting in the chair opposite Peter's desk, his feet crossed on the corner and playing with a baseball that had been sitting on the corner. "Yes, Peter?"

Peter stood from his chair, ignoring Neal's crossed feet on his desk for once. "Focus. You're going to have to pay attention on this one."

Neal replaced the baseball and looked at him skeptically. "Pay attention on what one?"

"You were right yesterday," said Peter. Peter pulled on his suit jacket. "There is something much more valuable at Midtown. But even with all my persuading and badge-waving, they wouldn't give me anything on it. But they're definitely hiding something."

"So…" said Neal, drawing out the word as realization hit. His eyes followed Peter as he shut off his monitor and grabbed his phone. "You think…"

"Yes," Peter nodded. "I think the bank is in on it."

"The entire business is working with Maverick?"

"Maybe. Or just the manager. Some guy, Roger Allen."

Roger Allen.

_"Mr. Allen, how are you?"_

Neal swallowed hard, ice slipping down his spine. The man who stopped him the night of the heist was the new manager of the bank.

"—and talk to him."

Neal looked up.

"Neal," said Peter, pausing at the door. He raised an eyebrow. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, everything's fine." said Neal, shaking himself. He took his feet down from the desk, still trying to yank himself from the paralyzing thoughts. "You said he wouldn't tell you anything?"

"No," said Peter slowly, his eyebrow creeping higher. "I said we should work our way in there and talk to him. He wasn't there when I called yesterday, but I don't think that's true. I want to have a face-to-face with him."

Face-to-face. If Neal and Peter went down to the bank and spoke with Allen, there was a very good chance Allen would recognize Neal as the security guard from the heist. If he told Peter...

Neal shuddered.

"Yeah," said Neal finally, thinking quickly. "Maybe you should go down there and talk to him."

Peter laughed. "You're not coming?"

"I just feel that if you go alone, you know, all irritated and menacing bad-cop," said Neal as Peter glared at him, "he'd be more likely to talk to you. If you bring around your charming sidekick, you'll lose that menace." Neal flashed him a smile, hoping against hope that Peter would take the bait.

Peter's eyes narrowed. "Nice try. You're coming."

Neal sighed in defeat. He slowly got up to follow Peter out of his office, dread sinking into his chest.

So much for staying in the van.

* * *

"Ready?"

"As ever."

Neal and Peter exited Peter's car and started on the short walk to Midtown Mutual. Neal looked casually over as they passed the alleyway, the manhole only partially visible, still hidden partly by a dumpster. His shoulder twinged suddenly and Neal rubbed it right over the scar. He swallowed hard and tried to force away the memories.

"Neal."

"What?" Neal tore his gaze away. Peter was holding the door for him.

"Focus," hissed Peter as Neal passed him through the doorway. The bank was as Neal remembered it, for the most part. Neal looked to the left, seeing the desk Kate had occupied when she'd been working here. He felt another twinge of pain somewhere inside his chest at the sight.

Neal and Peter headed to the front desk, to one of the tellers. She was younger, with red hair and a name tag that read  _Savannah_.

"Hi," she said brightly as they approached. Neal leaned against the counter. Savannah smiled at him. "What can I do for you today?"

"We're looking for Roger Allen," said Peter politely, not yet flashing his badge. Best not to scare the man away.

"He'd probably be in his office." she said to Neal with a smile, almost as if she thought he'd been the one who'd spoken. But for once, Neal couldn't bring himself to return the smile.

"Can we speak with him?" asked Peter.

Her face fell. "Well… usually he requires an appointment—"

"Can I help you?"

Neal and Peter turned at the voice of a man behind them. It wasn't Roger Allen. Neal breathed a sigh of relief. It was a blond-haired man. He was carrying a stack of files. "I'm headed toward Mr. Allen's office, I can escort you there."

Peter smiled, giving Neal a nudge. "Thank you."

Neal and Peter followed the young man down a restricted hallway, the man having to scan his keycard. The hallways were so familiar; Neal could almost see Mozzie next to him, donned in that security uniform they'd stolen, as if Neal had just walked five years into the past. The carpet was a bit more faded, the paint on the walls a shade deeper, as if they'd been redone.  _They_ had _been redone_ , Neal suddenly realized. Mozzie had set fire to three of the offices in this hallway. Neal and Peter passed the vault hallway, and Neal hastily looked away, not wanting to live in that memory any longer than he had already.

"Right down this hallway," the man said. "Third door on your left."

"Hang on," said Neal. He reached over and adjusted the files in the man's arms to keep them from falling over. In the process, he nonchalantly took his keycard and pocketed it. Good to have a quick getaway in case he needed it.

"Thanks," he said, then disappeared in an office down the hallway.

"Third door on our left," repeated Peter as they walked down. Peter knocked on the door and he and Neal waited until it opened. Before the door even opened all the way, Peter pulled out his badge and said, "Special Agent Peter Burke, FBI. I have some questions, Mr. Allen."

The man stumbled back a step at the same time Neal's heart froze in his chest. This was Allen. He looked the same as he did the night of the heist, if not for a few more wrinkles and receding hairline. Neal quickly catalogued the man, something he'd naturally done since he was young. The man didn't wear a wedding ring. His right hand went up to his glasses, pushing them up, giving Neal one of Allen's tells - a giveaway that he was lying. Allen was wearing designer suit and shoes, clothes that Neal knew were hard to afford with the job Allen had. All in all, Allen looked like the kind of man with something to hide.

Neal swallowed his nervousness.

"Agent Burke," said Allen calmly. "Please, come in."

They walked in, Peter shutting the door carefully behind them. Allen sat behind his desk, nonchalantly turning off his computer monitor - something that didn't go unnoticed by Neal or Peter, who shared a quick glance - and gestured for Neal and Peter to sit in the chairs in front of his desk.

"You're a busy man." commented Peter.

"I have a lot going on, Agent Burke." agreed Allen, nodding. "What can I do for you?"

"This is my CI, Neal Caffrey." said Peter, gesturing to Neal, who tensed the slightest bit. Allen turned toward him. He gave him a slight smile, but Neal knew that within those precious a seconds, Allen was studying him. Neal fought the urge to shift in the chair and hoped against hope that the man didn't recognize him.

"I'm sure that you're aware that your bank was almost robbed the other day." said Peter, crossing his legs.

"I am," Allen replied, tearing his gaze away from Neal. "Surely you didn't come to tell me something that I am well aware of?"

Allen was being rude, and Neal knew that any criminal who had the nerve to be rude right off the bat to an FBI agent meant trouble.

"Of course not," said Peter with a laugh. "We're under the impression that the kids were not the actual criminals in this case. They were a distraction."

Allen's expression didn't change, and he looked almost bored. "Distraction for what?"

"Have you seen this man?" asked Peter, pulling a picture out of the file he'd brought with them. He handed it to Allen. "He goes by the alias 'Maverick'."

Allen took the photo and looked at it. Neal and Peter watched him carefully. "No," he said, leaning back in his chair and setting the photo back in front of Peter. Allen adjusted his glasses again.

"You haven't?" asked Peter. "Because this is the man who tried to rob this bank nearly five years ago. You were here that night. I'm sure it's not something you would have forgotten."

Neal watching the silent battle between Peter and Allen, rigid, not daring to speak.

"Oh," said Allen. He stopped touching his glasses and clasped his hands in front of him, holding them still. "Well, of course I know who he is. But you asked me if I saw him during the failed heist the other day, and I didn't. Isn't this man supposed to be in jail?"

"He was released a few weeks ago."

"Five years? Only five years for attempted thievery and murder?"

"Guess so." Peter sighed. "We believe he's going to strike again. Seems there's something important enough to him to risk robbing the same place twice. Any idea what he could be back for?"

"Well, we do have quite a bit of money here. It is a bank, after all."

Peter laughed again. "That's true, Mr. Allen, but he wasn't here for money last time and he's not here for it this time. Is there anything of more value than the cash inside your vault?"

"He wasn't here for the money last time?" asked Allen, raising an eyebrow. "Didn't the FBI find a bag filled with $1.5 million next to him when you arrested him?"

"Yes, they did."

Neal swallowed hard.

Allen gave Peter an am-I-missing-something? look. "So, what makes you think he'd be here for anything else?"

"Because if he's after cash, there are a million other banks he could choose from." Peter leaned forward. "Why this one?"

"Look, Agent Burke," said Allen, leaning forward in his own chair, mirroring Peter. "There is nothing to tell you."

"I'd like you to walk me through what happened last time."

Neal forced himself not to breathe. If Allen recounts everything from that night...

He was in major trouble.

Allen sighed. "I told the FBI what happened already."

"Well, I'd like to hear it again."

Peter and Allen stared each other down. Neal sat stock-still, watching them carefully, cursing Peter's persistence. It was clear that Peter held a superior power over Allen. It didn't take more than a few moments for Allen to cave. "Alright, Burke. It was April 27th, and the bank was due to close in two hours." Peter sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. Neal didn't move.

"I wasn't manager then," Allen continued. "I was working under Richard Graff, but he's long gone now - asked to step down. I was in the vault hallway mere minutes before Midtown was almost robbed."

"You were in the vault hallway?" asked Peter. "What were you doing there?"

"My job, Agent Burke. I worked inside the vault; it was part of my responsibility at the time. No one was in there when I was."

"What else do you remember about that night?"

Neal's heart tripled in speed. He took a short breath, trying to force it to slow.

Allen sighed impatiently. "I left and locked the vault, then went down the hallway. Then I passed two security guards who—" Allen abruptly cut off his words. His eyes suddenly drifted to Neal. Neal tensed. Allen's gaze was boring into him.

 _He knows_ , thought Neal. He fought to hold his composure, ice slipping down his spine. Allen's gaze lingered on him for another moment, and just as Neal was about to say something, Peter interrupted the silence.

"'A security guard who…?'" prompted Peter. "Care to finish that sentence?"

Neal shut his eyes, trying to think of a lie to cover himself with as Allen cleared his throat, and tore his gaze from Neal. "I didn't recognize them. But I don't work with security much, so I don't know, they might have been new."

_What?_

Peter leaned forward. Neal stared at Allen, trying to hide his surprise, and resisted the urge to breathe out in relief. Why would he..?

"So," said Peter suddenly, "You're saying you think these security guards are in on it? Accomplices?"

"No," said Allen, his gaze drifting again to Neal for a split second, then back to Peter. "Just the one. But I could be wrong."

"Can you describe who you saw?"

Neal bit the inside of his cheek, his heart pounding.

"No," said Allen, shaking his head. Relief flooded Neal's veins, but suspicion quickly replaced the relief.  _If Allen knows, why is he protecting me?_

"No?" asked Peter.

"No," repeated Allen. "It was a long time ago, Agent Burke. He was caucasian. Dark hair." He looked at Neal, the shadow of a sly grin slipping across his face. "Maybe around the same height as your CI." Fear shot a thin, icy line down Neal's spine, and his eyes narrowed just a little.

"It was only minutes after that when the alarm sounded and a fire had broken out from a computer in one of our offices." continued Allen. "That was probably his distraction." said Allen, sounding bored again. "The FBI came a few minutes later, this 'Maverick' was arrested and I went home. Satisfied, Agent Burke?"

"Not quite," said Peter, "There's still one thing that doesn't add up."

"And what's that?" asked Allen, annoyed.

"That night, I received a distressed call from one of your employees." Neal's heart pounded in his head. He fought not to shift uncomfortably in his chair. "Maverick seemed to have hurt him, possibly shot him, from what I heard on the phone, but when the FBI arrived, there were no injured employees, and no one we spoke to said that they called us."

"Well, Agent Burke, I really don't have an answer for you."

"I think he could be afraid of coming forward," said Peter. "Maybe he thinks Maverick will come after him, being a witness, and all."

"Like I said, Agent Burke, I don't have that answer for you." said Allen shortly. "Feel free to question our employees. Again."

Accepting that he wouldn't get an answer, Peter leaned back and nodded. "I'll take what you've told us into consideration. Thank you for your time, Mr. Allen."

Peter stood to leave. He held his hand for Allen to shake, and reluctantly, Allen did. Though he didn't even attempt return Peter's smile.

"Have a good day," said Peter.

"Yeah," said Allen. Then his gaze, again, went to Neal. "You, too, Mr. Caffrey."

Neal nodded stiffly.

Peter and Neal left the office. Peter's artificial grin immediately disappeared. "What a son of a bitch."

"Yeah."

Peter looked at Neal as they left the hallway, noting that Neal's face seemed practically drained of color. "You okay?"

Neal looked up. "'Course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You were quiet. Really quiet."

"You hate it when I talk."

"Well," said Peter, shrugging, "not always."

"Oh. Guess I'll throw in a word or two next time."

"Seriously, Neal, what's going on with you?" Peter stopped walking, pausing in the middle of the lobby. He searched Neal's face.

"Nothing, Peter." said Neal. Neal had never had a problem concealing his emotions from Peter before; so why couldn't he now? He continued walking, and he and Peter pushed through the doors and out into the city. "I was just… listening."

"Listening?"

"Paying attention. To Allen." said Neal. "He was definitely hiding something."

"That's for sure." Peter nodded. "Arrogant bastard has guilt written all over him. Think he's working with Maverick?"

"I don't know." Neal sighed.  _And why the hell did he protect me?_

Peter got in the car and shut his door. Neal reached for his seatbelt and Peter started the engine, turning into traffic. "Looks like we have a stakeout tonight."

Neal looked at him. "A stakeout? Here?" He paused. "Did I miss something?"

"Yeah," said Peter. "I think someone might break in tonight." He looked at Neal out of the corner of his eye, smiling.

"Really?" asked Neal incredulously. "Are you seriously saying what I think you're saying?"

"By the time I get a warrant, whatever Allen's trying to hide will be completely untouchable."

"I thought you believed in the system." muttered Neal.

"Sometimes…" said Peter, trailing off.

"The ends justify the means?" supplied Neal.

Peter snapped his fingers. "Yes!"

Neal rolled his eyes. "You hate it when I apply that to my life."

"Because, ninety-nine percent of the time, it doesn't apply to your life, Neal."

"Well," said Neal, pulling the keycard out of his pocket. "Guess it's a good thing I found this."

Peter glanced at him. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You took his keycard?"

"Found it." Neal repeated with a smile.

"Sure. You found it in his  _pocket_." Peter shook his head. "I know all your games."

"Not all of them." said Neal under his breath. He sighed again. "When did you hear this break-in would occur?" asked Neal.

"Around eleven."

"Fantastic." Neal stared out the window, trying to ignore his rising nervousness. The last thing he wanted to do was break into this bank.

 _Again_.

"It still doesn't make sense." said Peter. "Why would Allen help Maverick during that heist five years ago?"

"Well," said Neal, thinking back to Allen's designer suit. "Allen seems like the kind of guy who can be bought. He works at this bank for a while, finds out they have some sort of priceless something in the vault. He's no thief, so he hires one. That's where Maverick comes in. He steals whatever it is using Allen's insider information, they split the money, everyone's happy."

"Except…" said Peter slowly. "Allen got greedy. He decided he wanted to cut Maverick out of the deal and he called the Feds and set him up?" Peter shook his head. "No. I received that call. Allen sounds nothing like the kid who called me."

Neal stared out the window.

"You should have heard him," said Peter. "He was terrified. Thought Maverick was going to kill him."

Neal didn't trust himself to say anything.

"That still doesn't fit." Peter went on, as if talking to himself. "I still have no idea what happened there."

Neal watched the cars pass by out the window until Peter as he pulled up to June's house.

"I'll pick you up at ten." said Peter with a grin.

Luckily, Neal didn't have to bother to hide his irritation. "Can't wait."

"Neal," said Peter, grabbing Neal's arm. Neal turned back. "Are you sure you're alright? You've been acting off since yesterday." When Neal hesitated, Peter added, "You know you can trust me with anything… right?"

_"Neal... you've got to tell the Suit."_

If he was going to tell Peter, he'd have to tell him now. His cell of four years at the jail suddenly flashed to his mind. But wasn't his life more important than worrying about spending a few more years in jail? And Peter's overlooked some things in the past, wasn't there a possibility that he could now?

_"You know you can trust me with anything, right?"_

Neal shook himself and shot Peter one of his most charming smiles. "Yeah, everything's fine. See you at ten thirty, Peter."

Neal shut the door and walked away.

"Ten!" shouted Peter. "Ten sharp, Neal!"

Neal disappeared into the house and Peter sighed, rolling his eyes for the fifth time that day, and pulling away from the house.

It was going to be a long night.


	4. Chapter 4

"Can you hear me?"

Neal just gave Peter a look, hearing the agent's voice in both the comm unit in his ear and two feet in front of him inside the Municipal Utilities van. "Loud and clear, Peter."

Peter nodded. "Good. We have ears on you."

"I really love that we're cutting this case extremely close and parking three blocks away from the bank." commented Neal flatly, though the idea of having to stay in the humid,  _interestingly scented_  van nearly made him shiver. He zipped up his jacket, preparing himself for the brisk city air. He was dressed in black, fully ready to blend into the night.

"Nice night for a walk," Jones tried.

Neal glared at him.

"If you need to get out of there, let us know." added Diana, swiveling around in her chair.

"Be careful." said Peter.

"Guys, please." said Neal, holding up a hand. "You do your jobs, I'll do mine."

Neal got out of the van and started his long walk to the bank. It was eleven-fifteen, and the bank closed hours ago. The sky was dark and street lamps scattered the sidewalks, casting a lazy, faded glow on the pavement. Neal sighed, rubbing some warmth into his arms as the chill penetrated his thin, leather jacket. Every step seemed to follow another pound of his heart.

_Relax_ , he told himself firmly.  _You're just going to look around_. He couldn't shake the distinct feeling of paranoia at the back of his neck, and that coupled with the fact that he was once again breaking into the same bank as he had years ago was enough to send another chill down his spine, one having nothing to do with the temperature.

" _You're nearly there_ ," said Peter's voice in Neal's ear.

Neal rolled his eyes. "I know where the bank is."

" _Sorry. Trying to help_."

"Maybe you could have dropped me off at the front door."

" _You could use the exercise_."

"Me?"

" _For your mental health. Work off some of that stress_."

"Bank's in view," Neal informed them, hating what he was doing. "Heading to the back door."

Neal turned down the alley beside the bank. He looked down and saw the manhole, remembering the heist like it was moments ago. Suddenly Mozzie and Kate were standing next to him, the pain throbbed in his shoulder and fear coursed through his veins.

Neal shook himself. He couldn't think about that now. He couldn't think about any distractions when he was on a job.

Neal quickly walked to the door. He pulled out a password decoder, one strong enough to bypass this keypad lock. Surprisingly, the FBI supplied it. Peter found it in the evidence warehouse from a past case and declared it worthy of use.

"I'm in." whispered Neal as the lock screen glowed green and the door clicked open.

" _Good_ ," said Peter in his ear.

"Next time you question the legality of my tactics, I am bringing this up." said Neal, pocketing the machine.

" _And we can have a long discussion about that the next time I visit you in prison_."

Neal heard Jones clear his throat.

" _Now_ ," said Peter, suddenly serious, " _go down the hallway and take your first left_ —"

"I know, Peter." sighed Neal as he pulled the door open.

" _Right. Who am I talking to_?"

Neal shut the door quietly, and peered around the corner. The next hallway was perpendicular to the one he was standing in, and the coast was clear for both directions. That was weird. Usually this was one of the guard posts because it was so close to the vault hallway. Neal's eyebrows kneaded and he hesitated. Something felt off.

" _Everything okay, Neal_?" asked Peter, as if reading his mind.

"Fine," whispered Neal, the lie slipping uneasily over his tongue. "I'm heading to the vault hallway."

Neal turned left and headed down the hallway again, sticking to the shadows and staring at the floor to avoid the camera in the corner of the ceiling.

Reaching the end of the hallway, Neal pulled out the keycard that he took from the young employee hours before, and he swiped it. Clicking faintly, the locked glowed green and the door opened. Neal slipped through and headed to the end, to the vault.

Neal looked around as he approached the vault. No security. Usually he'd chalk it up to luck, but this was wrong. Very wrong.

It was an instinct. Usually, he follows his instinct. If he had, he would have turned right around and gotten the hell out of this bank.

Neal opened his mouth to say something to Peter, but stopped dead.

A gun cocked in his ear.

He froze. Before he could turn around, the man behind him walked into view.

It was Roger Allen.

Though, he looked different now. The glasses he'd worn earlier were gone. He was still wearing his suit, but he'd taken off the tie. His irritated expression had darkened into something much more menacing. But Neal was only looking at the gun in his hand, aimed at his head.

Keeping his composure, Neal was about to speak when Allen put a finger to his lips, and the gun suddenly against Neal's temple, indicating Neal to stay quiet. Neal reluctantly shut his mouth. Allen knew that Peter was listening.

Allen lifted his free hand and waved two fingers in a beckoning manner. Neal saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and he turned his head, feeling his heart stop beating.

Maverick emerged from the shadows. He, too, had a gun in his hand. He grinned maliciously, looking at Neal.

_Peter was right_ , Neal needlessly thought,  _Allen and Maverick are working together_.

Allen's gun moved from Neal's temple to the small of his back and Allen prodded him forward, back the way he'd come.

" _Neal_?" said Peter's voice. Neal hadn't spoken in a few minutes. He could hear slight concern seeping through Peter's voice.

Neal didn't reply. He just kept walking, the gun prodding sharply in his back.

" _Neal? Answer me, Neal_."

Allen paused at the door and opened it with his keycard. He shoved Neal forward and they continued down the hallways, heading for the back door. With Maverick on his left, and Allen behind him, Neal didn't see an escape that wouldn't get him killed.

" _Neal_!"

Allen opened the backdoor and Maverick walked briskly through first. Allen prodded Neal again. Neal didn't move. Maverick was opening the manhole in the ground.

Neal took a breath. Now or never. "You were right, Peter."

" _What_?" was Peter's sharp reply.

"Allen is in on it—"

Neal couldn't finish. Allen removed the gun from Neal's back and struck Neal on the side of his head. Neal cried out, hitting the wall from the force.

" _Neal_!" shouted Peter. " _Everyone move in_!"

Neal pushed himself off the wall and tried to run but Maverick was suddenly in front of him, grabbing him by the arm and throwing him to the ground. Neal hit the pavement hard, his head whip-lashing on the ground. His vision swam.

"Looks like we meet again, Caffrey." He pulled Neal up by his forearms, his grip crushing. "You couldn't keep your mouth shut for just a little longer, could you?"

"The FBI is—" began Neal, but Maverick increased the pressure on Neal's arm and Neal cringed.

"You took something from us, Caffrey." said Allen. "And we want it back. Where's the drive?"

"You son of a—"

"FBI is closing in," said Allen. "Just take him. Cut the anklet. Break the watch."

With Maverick holding Neal back, he handed Allen a knife. Allen cut the anklet off Neal, and Maverick removed Neal's watch, throwing it in the dumpster. His earpiece was taken out and crushed.

Neal struggled, but Maverick wasn't slowed. He dragged Neal to the manhole, dropping him down the hole. Unable to control the fall, Neal landed hard on his shoulder, grunting in pain, hating the irony. Maverick and Allen came down soon after and Neal struggled to his knees.

"I don't think so, Caffrey."

Neal didn't even see it coming. The gun struck him again, light exploded behind his eyes and everything went black.


	5. Chapter 5

_"We have the building surrounded, Sir."_

_"All exits and entries are locked down."_

_"We have another team on standby."_

_"What's the course of action?"_

"Peter, what do you want to do?"

Peter blinked.

"Boss?"

Peter shook himself. He was standing on the sidewalk, staring into space. The voices seemed so far away. The double doors of Midtown Mutual stood before him, the lights bright inside the bank as FBI agents searched the building for any sight of Allen or Maverick.

Or Neal.

Neal had been taken, but Peter didn't know how.

And how did they get him out so _quickly_?

But those questions weren't what stunned him, putting him into a frigid daze.

_"Looks like we meet again, Caffrey."_

"Peter!"

Peter looked up. Diana was standing in front of him. She was holding a radio, and Peter heard dozens of agents relaying statuses over the machine. Diana was staring at him, a certain concern in her eyes.

"Yeah, Diana, what is it?"

"This is your team," she said slowly, firmly. "They want to know what your plan is. What do you want them to do?"

"Search everything." said Peter mechanically. "Find any trace of Allen, Maverick or Neal."

Diana just shook her head. "We already have. They found nothing. The bank is empty. No security guards, no employees working overtime, nothing." She let out a breath, staring at the bank. "They seemed to disappear into thin air."

"No security?" asked Peter, his brows kneading. _That doesn't sound right._

"Allen's manager," said Diana with a shrug. "He could have easily called off his own dogs."

Peter huffed out a sigh. "Did our agents get inside the vault?" he asked. "Did Allen and Maverick get away with whatever it is they were after?"

"Agents are working their way inside now. We have Midtown employees on the way, one of them has access."

Peter ran a hand through his hair. "How did this happen?" None of this made any sense. Why did they take Neal? If Allen and Maverick stole what they wanted, what good was it to take Neal? And even if they didn't steal what they came for, what did Neal have to do with it?

_"You took something from us five years ago."_

Peter's eyes narrowed as Maverick's words snaked into his mind. Five years ago. Five years ago was the heist at Midtown, the one Maverick attempted. Why was he blaming Neal for taking something?

Unless…

No. Neal couldn't have been there. He had no reason to be. Why would Neal have been at Midtown that day? Peter was there. Peter would have seen him. And besides, Maverick didn't mention—

_"I was framed."_

That's what Maverick kept repeating: that he was framed. Could Neal have…

Could he really? Would he really have robbed Midtown Mutual all those years ago? But…

That was it. Neal's been acting strange all week, ever since this case began.

Because he was _involved_.

"Peter!"

Peter looked back at her again, snapping out of his daze. Diana was glaring at him.

"I have to go." he said suddenly, backing away.

Diana looked taken aback. "Go? Go where? This is your job, Peter!"

"That's where I'm going," said Peter, raising a hand and hailing a taxi. "To do my job."

* * *

Peter banged on the door. There was a only a small chance that he would be there and Peter prayed that he was. After he hit the door the fifth time, Peter heard a shout from inside.

"I'm armed and not afraid to shoot!"

"Mozzie!" yelled Peter. "Open the door!"

The door opened a second later. Mozzie looked at him, puzzled. "Suit?"

Peter strode through the door and Mozzie shut it behind him. Peter turned and looked at the little man, and realized Mozzie was holding a lamp.

Peter raised an eyebrow. "That's your weapon?"

"Desperate times," he said. Mozzie set the lamp back down on Neal's table and asked, "What are you doing here? Neal isn't home."

"I know, I came here to see you."

Mozzie's eyebrows kneaded. "Why? Isn't Neal supposed to be with you right now?"

"That's why I'm here," With a heavy sigh, Peter said, "I need you to tell me what happened during the Midtown Mutual heist five years ago."

Mozzie straightened immediately. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Mozzie," sighed Peter, running a hand through his hair. "I don't have time for games. Were you involved or not?"

"Is this an interrogation?" asked Mozzie skeptically.

"I'm asking you a question."

"Exactly."

Peter huffed out another sigh. I don't have time for this! "No, it's not. Just tell me!"

"Look, Suit—"

"Whatever you tell me could save Neal's life." said Peter finally, the words heavy.

That finally got Mozzie's attention. Concern etched into his face and he looked speechless for a few seconds. If the situation hadn't been so serious, Peter might have reveled in that. "Neal? What do you mean? Is he in danger?"

Peter steeled himself. "He was taken an hour ago by two men named Roger Allen and Maverick—"

" _Maverick_?!" exclaimed Mozzie, eyes widening behind his glasses. Peter started a little at the sheer amount of fear in the man's gaze. "No, no, no! Suit, you don't understand, you need to find Neal now—"

"I'm working on that!" growled Peter. "Maverick told Neal that Neal stole something from them five years ago. Was Neal at that heist?"

Mozzie was suddenly quiet. The fear was still strong in his eyes but there was something else now. A different kind of fear. A hesitation. Peter knew why; if Mozzie told Peter what happened, he was admitting to guilt.

Peter sighed. "Alright." He took his badge from his jacket pocket and threw it on the table. "Full immunity. I'm granting you full immunity for anything you say now."

Mozzie hesitated, then walked to the table and picked up the badge, inspecting it. "Is this a fake?"

"No, Mozzie!" snapped Peter. "It's real, I'm serious! Full immunity. Now sit down and tell me everything that happened that night!"

Mozzie sighed, dropping the badge back on the table and pulling out a chair. Peter followed. Peter stared at the smaller man, waiting for him to speak. Before he did, Mozzie stood and went to Neal's wine collection and poured himself a glass, bringing it to the table and sitting back down.

"Yes," said Mozzie at last. "Neal and I were… involved." Mozzie said the last word almost as if it was yanked from him. Peter was surprised he still didn't reflexively throw an allegedly in front of it. Then Mozzie looked at him, puzzled. "Wait, didn't Neal already tell you?"

"Tell me what?" asked Peter. "Neal didn't tell me anything." Neal never tells me anything.

_"Neal, everything okay?"_

_A pause. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"_

_"You've been acting strange all week."_

Peter felt guilt run a hot line through his veins. He knew Neal better than anyone. Better than even Neal himself. Peter should have known there was something bothering his CI. He should have pressed. Neal might not have said the words, but he'd told Peter enough.

Peter just hadn't been _listening_.

"He told me he was going to tell you!" Mozzie rubbed his face.

"Tell me _what_?" demanded Peter, irritation and anger with himself running hotly through him.

"Maverick has it out for Neal," explained Mozzie. "If he has Neal now…" Mozzie trailed off.

Peter rubbed a hand over his face. "What happened? That heist; what happened?"

Mozzie let out a breath and took a long sip of the wine, as if readying himself for telling so much truth. "Well, it was five years ago. You were hunting Neal down and we were still in New York. We needed money but you and your little friends were making things difficult."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "I'm not going to apologize, if that's what you're waiting for."

"Anyway," said Mozzie, continuing, "Neal, Kate and I—"

"Kate was involved, too?"

Mozzie rubbed his face. "Suit, please, do you want me to tell you the story or not?" Peter held up a hand in surrender and Mozzie continued, "We needed cash, fast. We wanted to get the hell out of the city. So, Kate became a new employee at the bank, and she was our in. That night, Neal and I snuck into the bank as security guards. Things were going well until some guy, that Roger Allen, stopped us. He let Neal go but told me to resume my post outside—"

"That was you!" exclaimed Peter. "Allen said something about running into two security guards but… But he looked at Neal and stopped talking." That was why. He'd recognized Neal.

"Yeah," Mozzie went on, "well I was supposed to have gone to the vault with Neal. With us separated, Neal would only be able to carry half the amount of money. I mean, it would still have been something." Mozzie shrugged. "But, anyway, I went back to my 'post' where Allen left me, and then I initiated phase three of the plan. I set fire to one of the offices."

"So the fire was you, too?"

"It was well under control," assured Mozzie. "Security ran to deal with that and then I made a clear path for Kate and Neal to escape. But things didn't go as planned." Mozzie's expression darkened. "Kate was supposed to meet me but she never showed. But I had no idea what was happening to Neal. I had to wait a good five or ten minutes before they came out of the back door. Kate was half-dragging Neal out of it. Neal said that there was another thief there—Maverick—and Kate said that he'd run into Neal and shot him. We got Neal out of there as soon as possible but by the time we made it back to the car, Neal was unconscious. Kate and I drove him to a hospital outside of Queens. He didn't wake up for two days."

Mozzie fell silent. Peter clasped his hands together. Neal had almost died that night, and Peter had been only feet away from him. They were in the same building.

_"Is that gunfire? Were you hit?"_

Peter froze. The phone conversation from that night jumped into his mind.

The employee who called, saying Maverick was trying to kill him.

Someone who knew Peter's number offhand.

Someone who had been shot.

"Mozzie," said Peter, "did Neal say if he called—"

"—you?" finished Mozzie. "Yeah. He did."

"That was him." Peter rubbed his face, several emotions clashing in his veins. "All these years, I've been wondering… and it was him." An uneasy feeling settled in his stomach. That employee—Neal—had been terrified. He remembered Maverick's yelling. The gun going off. The employee's agonized cry of pain.

 _Neal's_ cry of pain.

And now Maverick had him again.

"Alright," said Peter, heart picking up a bit in speed. "What happened between Neal and Maverick?"

"Neal framed him." said Mozzie. "He filled a bag with—"

"—$1.5 million—" Peter interjected.

"—and left him pinned underneath a shelf."

"Neal broke into Midtown tonight." said Peter, guilt still swarming inside him. "Allen and Maverick found him and they seemed to disappear into thin air. How—"

"There's a manhole outside the back door. Well, now it's underneath a dumpster." said Mozzie. "Hard to see. That's how we got in and out, and that's probably how they did, too."

Peter lifted his head, pieces fitting into place. "That makes sense, there were no getaway vehicles."

"It leads to an empty warehouse in Queens."

Peter smiled grimly. "Looks like we have a lead."

_"Where's the drive, Caffrey?"_

Maverick's voice jumped back into Peter's head. The drive. What drive? What did Maverick mean by that? Flash drive? That must be what they'd been looking for.

"Mozzie," said Peter, "do you know anything about a drive? A flash drive? Hard drive? Anything from that vault?"

"No." Mozzie shook his head. "But if it was in the vault, there would only be a handful of people who knew about it. Like—"

"—the previous manager." said Peter. He sighed. "Did Neal take whatever it is Maverick was looking for? This drive?"

"No." said Mozzie, a shadow crossing his face. "He didn't take anything except a bullet that day."

Peter read the hurt in Mozzie's eyes. It was such a raw emotion; Peter didn't see that in Mozzie very much. It was unsettling. "We'll find him, Moz. I promise."

Mozzie didn't look reassured.

"Maverick still thinks that Neal took whatever it is that he and Allen want; this drive." said Peter. "Neal is still valuable to them, and Neal will play that to his advantage." Suddenly he wondered if he was trying to convince Mozzie or himself. Peter shook himself and leveled a strong, sincere gaze with Mozzie. "He'll get out of this. He'll be fine. It's _Neal_."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!!
> 
> Thank you all SO MUCH for reading and everything!! And especially to those reviewing, thank you so much!!! :) they make my day every time, thank you!!
> 
> I hope you like this one!! :)
> 
> ~cosette141

Neal opened his eyes.

His surroundings slowly came into focus. His head pounded, his shoulder ached. Neal knew it should worry him that his vision and hearing were a few steps behind; the clear signs of a concussion.

He felt groggy, his head spinning. He knew what happened. He knew Maverick and Allen had taken him, and he knew why. He just didn't know what he was going to do about it.

He briefly remembered his head slamming against the concrete when Maverick threw him down. The back of his head started pounding incessantly as if he'd just reawakened the pain with the memory.

It was cold and hard to see. Neal's eyes slowly adjusted to the dim lighting. Of what he could see, the room only housed some tall, metal shelving holding old, ratty cardboard boxes. The air was musty and damp. It was a warehouse. A warehouse that hadn't been maintained in years.

Neal didn't see anyone. He listened intently, but there were no voices. Were Allen and Maverick nearby?

Neal tried to move but he was tightly secured to a rusting metal chair. Immediately, he focused his attention on what was binding his hands behind him, hoping they were handcuffs. Handcuffs were easy.

Unfortunately, they weren't handcuffs. They must have been rope or wire. Neal struggled briefly against them but whatever it was began to cut into his skin, and Neal ceased the effort with a wince.

Officially giving up on escaping, Neal breathed hard, trying to slow down his heart. He'd be fine. He'd find a way out of this. He always did. It wasn't the first time he'd woken up in the throes of a criminal with a grudge and he made it out of those alive. He just had to be patient.

As more silent minutes ticked by, and the very quiet was crawling over his skin, Neal wondered just what Allen and Maverick were after. It had to be something priceless, something incredibly valuable. Allen and Maverick were messing directly with the FBI now, which wasn't usually something normal criminals try to do. Kidnapping an FBI consultant was not their brightest move. Especially kidnapping  _Peter Burke's_  consultant.

Neal thought about Peter. Surely, by now, Peter figured it out. From when Maverick said,  _"You took something from us five years ago,"_  and his mentioning of how he and Neal " _met again,_ " it wasn't hard to deduce. Neal wondered how Peter felt. Would he be angry? Well… no, Neal committed that crime five years ago, before he started behaving (for the most part). The real problem was if Peter could  _overlook_  it.

If Peter was angry, it would be because Neal didn't tell him about it now. In retrospect, Neal probably  _should_  have told him. He should have listened to Mozzie. Hell, he should have listened to his own gut instinct. Yes, Peter would have had to cover some things up, leave more details out of Neal's file to keep him from going back to prison, but those consequences seemed so much lighter than the ones he was going to have to pay now. The chill of the metal chair and the cut of the wire binding offered a promise that suddenly made jail feel like a nice spa day. He shivered, yanking at them again, eyes scanning the room for an escape that he couldn't see.

Almost as if to mock his thoughts, Neal heard footsteps. Neal stiffened and locked his eyes on the shadow approaching from between the shelves, narrowing his eyes into a glare. Allen suddenly walked into view. Shadows painted his face, giving him a ghostly appearance. He grinned sickly.

"Ah." said Allen, noticing Neal looking at him. "Awake, already, Mr. Caffrey?"

Neal said nothing. He lifted his gaze to Allen. He wasn't going to show any emotion to the man, denying him the satisfaction.

"Not in the mood to talk?" asked Allen. When Neal didn't say anything, Allen went on: "Let me tell you how this is going to work. You're going to tell me where you hid the drive, and you'll live."

_The drive?_

Not having the slightest clue what this "drive" might be, Neal shifted the conversation, doing his best to stall. "You don't negotiate well. Whether or not I tell you anything, we both know you're just going to kill me anyway."

"Because if you  _don't_  tell me," said Allen, drawing out the words in a cold voice, "you'll die  _slowly_."

Neal swallowed, doing his best to keep his fear out of his expression. This guy was certainly missing a screw or two, and Neal didn't have to use that much imagination to figure out how he would plan to kill him.

"I'm going to ask you where it is, now." said Allen firmly, his eyes drilling into Neal's. "This is the first time I'll ask, and your first chance to tell me. So, where did you hide the drive?"

Still intent on stalling as much as he could, Neal only cocked his head and smiled his most charming smile.

But stalling or not, Neal didn't have anything  _to_  say. What drive? What was Allen even talking about?

"That's fine." said Allen, the menace in his voice a moment ago suddenly absent. "I know Maverick was looking forward to your withholding. I think he'll be a bit more convincing than I am." Allen gave Neal his own charming smile. "He doesn't like you very much."

Neal felt ice slide down his spine. He swallowed hard, doing his best to keep the fear out of his voice and expression. "Then we share the same opinion of each other."

Allen smiled at him, amused. "So brave, Caffrey. So very brave, so composed. I'm sure it won't take Maverick long to take care of that."

Neal hid his fear behind a choked laugh, his mask expertly slipping back over his features. "He can try."

Allen cocked his head. "You're much cockier than I thought."

"And you're much more of bastard than I thought."

Allen's expression shifted ever so slightly. Neal glared at him, holding the man's gaze. Allen's eyes narrowed into slits. "Careful, Caffrey," he said in a low voice, the amusement gone once again in the blink of an eye. "You are playing with fire. If I were you, I'd give up the drive before one of us loses our patience."

Allen held Neal's glare for a moment longer, then walked away, disappearing somewhere Neal couldn't see. Once gone, Neal let out a breath and fussed with his restraints again, his movements even more jerky and desperate.

Neal couldn't give Allen or Maverick an answer. First of all, he didn't take the drive. And what drive? Neal assumed they meant flash drive or hard drive. What kind of drive could they be trying so hard to get?

Regardless, telling them he  _didn't_  have the drive and never  _did_  would be far worse than telling them that he  _did_  have it. If they knew he didn't have it, he would be completely irrelevant. Disposable. They would kill him instantly.

But who did have the drive? Who else knew about it?

And what did it  _do_?

Maverick suddenly entered the room with heavy footsteps. Muscles rippled across his arms in a sickening way. He was just as menacing as Neal remembered seeing him in the bank vault five years prior. Neal swallowed hard, halting his attempt to escape the restraints, working desperately to keep the mask on his face airtight.

"This makes two times that you've screwed me over." said Maverick. He stood in front of Neal and stared him down, as if calculating him. Then, he smiled and circled Neal, in much the same unsettling way that Allen had. He grabbed Neal by the shoulders with abnormally strong hands. Neal tensed, his heart racing, wishing desperately that Maverick couldn't feel it.

"I've had a lot to think about while I was in prison." Maverick went on. "Five years to think, and ninety percent of those thoughts were of who put me there." Neal was still as Maverick released him and continued his slow circle around the chair, like a vulture around its prey. Maverick came full circle, however, and stopped in front of Neal, pushing back the sleeves to his shirt. "But the payback you so richly deserve is going to have to wait. Because unfortunately we need you alive for the next few minutes."

Neal swallowed hard, taking an unsteady breath. He pressed involuntarily back in the chair, shifting his gaze around the building, desperately wishing the FBI would come storming in right about now.

"So," Maverick said, "where's the drive, Caffrey?"

Neal didn't say anything.

Anything he said would get him killed.

"Tell me now," said Maverick, impatience sinking into his tone, "and I'll kill you quickly."

What a deal, thought Neal with dark sarcasm. But since Maverick seemed to be waiting for Neal to say something, Neal opted to stall. "How quickly?"

Maverick's eyes narrowed.

"Because," Neal went on, "I really think—"

His words were snatched from him when a heavy fist crashed into his temple.

The force of the hit snapped his head to the side, tearing a yell from his throat. Pain erupted behind his eyes, his headache from before now agonizing. His vision flickered with the punch for a terrifying second. He gasped, blinking profusely, trying to hear over the rushing in his ears. The world fell back together in pixels and Neal breathed hard, squinting at the brightness of the room.

"Where's the drive, Caffrey?"

The words were far away. Neal blinked again, heavily pulling his head up. If he didn't have a concussion before, he sure did now.

_Anything you say will get you killed._

The next hit caught him in his midsection.

Neal choked as the air was shoved out of him, doubling over in the chair. He felt something crack under the knuckles and pain radiated from his abdomen. As soon as he caught his breath he groaned, pain pulsing with every move of his chest.

Neal just breathed hard, doing his best to control the pain. One hit from him did this?

Before he could catch his breath enough to speak, another fist caught him in the same exact place, breaking the cracked ribs and making him cry out. Agony coursed through him and Neal clenched his teeth, breathing shallowly.

"Where's the drive, Caffrey? The longer you make me wait, the less you'll stay intact."

Neal yanked hard at the restraints, shutting his eyes against the pain. His head was still screaming, the pain competing with the agony that was his ribs. Part of him wanted to lie to the man, give him a fake location, buy himself time, but another, stronger, part, argued,  _the manhole from the alley leads here. Peter will find it. Eventually. You have to hold them here. Or no one will find you until it's too late_.

"I'll give you credit, Caffrey. Most people cave by now." came Maverick's voice from far away.

Another fist hit him, this time to his temple again. This time he knew his vision whited out and he blinked rapidly, the room spinning dangerously in his eyes. Something hot and wet trickled down his face. "I…" He coughed, his vision doubling so much he had to squeeze his eyes shut for a few seconds. "...don't know what you're talking about," Neal finished unevenly.

"I need a location, Caffrey," Maverick said firmly, slamming another fist into Neal's abdomen. Neal cried out, agony riding him in waves.

The pain was blinding, radiating throughout his body now. He could see Maverick preparing his fist again, hear a garbled demand from the man over the blood rushing in his ears. Desperate, Neal opened his mouth to try something else, a lie, a fake location, anything, but another fist caught him in the abdomen once more, with enough force to throw the chair backward. He landed hard on his back, groaning. Black encroached on his vision.

_Peter_ …

Just as Maverick reared back for another kick and Neal braced himself, something yanked Maverick back.

"Enough!" It was Allen's voice, breaking through Neal's daze like a voice from underneath water. Relief coursed through Neal's veins and he sank into the chair, trying to catch his breath. "I need him alive, you idiot! What part of that don't you understand? If he dies, you don't get paid!"

Maverick let out a huff of annoyance. "Fine."

Neal felt a presence at his side and Maverick coughing a laugh above him. He didn't even have the energy to flinch. "Ah, now that's what I call payback. This is fun." Maverick suddenly yanked Neal's head back and Neal couldn't hold in a cry. "Don't worry. We'll try this again in a little while. Consider this a sample of what you'll get the longer you hold out." Then he stood. "Don't get any ideas. You're not going anywhere." Maverick dropped Neal's head unceremoniously and stood.

Neal's vision flickered again and darkened as Maverick walked away. Shutting his eyes, breathing slow, halting breaths, Neal slipped away and couldn't help but agree.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again for the reviews and kudos and everything! :)
> 
> these updates will continue to be pretty fast! the story itself is completed, so I'll continue posting them every day or few days, whenever I can squeeze in the time to jump on here! :D
> 
> thanks again for reading and hope you enjoy chapter 7!

"So this is the guy? You're sure?"

"Positive."

Peter turned the laptop to face Mozzie, the screen illuminating the shorter man's face in the dimly lit apartment. They'd found the contact information of Richard Graff, the manager of Midtown Mutual before Allen had taken over. There was a chance he'd know about this drive.

Peter pulled out his phone. "I need to call Diana and Jones. We have to find Graff and—"

"No, Suit!" exclaimed Mozzie, taking Peter's phone out of his hand. "You can't involve the FBI in this one! If you do, Neal's going straight back to prison!"

"Mozzie," stressed Peter. "This is Neal's  _life_ we're talking about. We can't—"

"The more agents you involve, the worse it is for Neal's  _life_ , too. If the FBI steps in, Maverick and Allen are going to take it out on Neal."

The raw emotion was back in in Mozzie's eyes. Peter wanted to explain it to Mozzie, to get it into his head that the only thing that could help Neal now  _was_ the government. Though… Mozzie had a point. Even if the FBI found a way to save Neal's life, it meant that he would be going straight back to prison. Half of the white collar division hated the idea of having a criminal working with them and they'd jump at the chance of getting rid of him once and for all.

"Okay," said Peter at last. "What do I do?" Peter never thought he'd see the day that he'd be saying those words to Mozzie.

Mozzie seemed surprised that Peter agreed with him. He paused, momentarily changing his response. "Well, we'll go talk to this guy—"

"We?"

"Yes,  _we_."

Peter placed his hands on his hips, thinking. It wasn't smart to do this alone, without the FBI. But he had to admit... Mozzie was right. Allen and Maverick were smart. They could smell the FBI from miles away. Mozzie and Peter would never find Neal with a group of agents storming in behind them.

"Alright, Mozzie. Fine. No FBI." said Peter, defeated.

"Music to my ears."

Peter rolled his eyes. Peter turned the laptop around again and Mozzie handed him his cell phone back. Peter dialed Graff's number and listened to the dial tone. It was almost midnight. He might not even pick up. Peter and Mozzie waited.

"Who is this?" asked a voice on the other line.

"Richard Graff?" asked Peter hesitantly.

"Speaking."

Peter and Mozzie looked at each other. Peter cleared his throat. "Mr. Graff, I'm calling to ask if you know anything about a flash drive found in the Midtown Mutual vault." The other line was quiet for a while, and for a moment, Peter thought Graff had hung up. He looked at Mozzie, both of them sharing a grim glance.

Finally, "Who is this?"

"My name is Peter Burke," said Peter, relieved that he got a response. "This drive is putting my friend in danger. I need to know if you know where it is."

"Your friend is in danger?" asked Graff, his tone suddenly serious. He paused, then said, "We shouldn't be talking about this over the phone. Can you meet me at the café on the corner of Tenth and Wall Street?"

"Yes."

"Ten minutes."

Mozzie looked at Peter as he hung up. "That was easy."

"He sounded nervous about this drive."

"He didn't sound like a bad guy," said Mozzie.

"Well," said Peter, shutting the laptop. "Graff was asked to step down from management. Maybe it was because he and Allen fought over this drive."

Only one way to find out.

* * *

It took them about nine minutes to get to the café. Mozzie and Peter took a taxi. Halfway through the ride, Peter got a call from Diana. He lifted his phone, hesitating. What was he supposed to tell her?

"Well, don't answer it." said Mozzie, looking at Peter's phone screen.

"I have to," said Peter, getting tired of being ordered around. "If I don't, they'll think something happened to me."

"If you do then you have to lie!"

Before Peter could decide, Mozzie took the phone out of his hand and threw it out of the window.

" _Mozzie_!" exclaimed Peter. "What the hell?!"

"Sorry." he said, not looking apologetic in the least. "Had to be done."

Peter simmered. "You owe me a phone."

"Look," said Mozzie, pointing out the window as the taxi came to a stop. "We're here."

Peter and Mozzie got out of the car and started toward the café. The streets were still busy, despite the late hour. Peter knew why Graff chose this café. It was small, out of the way, and open late into the night.

It was warm inside, with soft lighting. The café had a bar, and a single barista behind the counter. He didn't even look up as Peter and Mozzie entered. There were few tables, and booths lining the windows. Only one customer was in the café. Peter and Mozzie slowly approached him, sliding into the booth across from him.

Graff looked up. He was nearing sixty, his hair graying. He was dressed in business attire, his jacket lying on the end of the table. He wore glasses, his eyes bright behind them. Graff smiled grimly.

"Which one of you is Peter?" asked Graff.

"I am." said Peter.

Graff turned to Mozzie. "And you are?"

"Haversham. Dante Haversham."

"Now," said Graff. "How do you know about the drive?"

Peter looked at Mozzie, but Mozzie made no effort to stop him. So Peter simply said, "I'm an FBI agent."

"You are?" asked Graff. He didn't seem to be bothered by it.

"Yes." said Peter, relieved it didn't scare him away. "I was the agent who arrested a man called Maverick who robbed Midtown five years ago."

"Ah." Graff sat back in his seat. "Yes."

"Did you know Roger Allen well?" asked Mozzie.

"Yes." Graff sighed. "I was manager of Midtown at the time of that heist. I had a feeling it was going to happen. I'm going to have to start at the beginning to explain this, so bear with me. It's all because of this." He reached in his jacket and pulled out a silver flash drive. He placed it on the table. "This drive was not my creation. It was the creation of the manager before me and I will say now that I don't condone the use of it. I'm ashamed to say I have had to use it in the past."

"What is it?" asked Peter.

Graff sighed. "It contains the information of every client we have." He shook his head, seeming to hate what he was saying. "When a new client creates an account with us, our computers are wired to send a copy of their information to an online database my previous manager created. It holds each client's account numbers, PIN numbers, passwords, social security numbers, security questions, you name it. Everything that we promised to keep confidential was a complete lie."

Peter stared at him, speechless. He  _himself_ opened an account with Midtown Mutual.

Graff continued, "We're a bank. We hold billions of dollars in credit and millions in cash. A few years ago, before the heist, we were falling hard. I don't know the details, I wasn't in the loop at that point, but it was enough to clean us out of a lot of money. If that came to light, the bank would have had to file for bankruptcy. So… they created this drive in the intent to take the money out of our client's accounts. When we drained a client's funds, we blamed it on identity theft, robbery, anything anonymous and anything we didn't have to replenish for them. There's nothing in our contract about refunding identity theft, that's up to insurance."

"So you stole from your own clients to cover up  _bankruptcy_?" asked Peter, astonished.

"Yes." A shadow crept over Graff's face. "We didn't do it often. If we did, people would start asking questions. But, luckily, identity theft and bank fraud are very common so no one questioned us. We were in the clear.

"But that's when Allen started rising up in management." Graff went on. "There was still only a handful of people who knew about this drive, and he was one of them. I'd always been suspicious of him. He seemed to develop a certain obsession with it, too eager to use it." Graff paused to take a sip of the coffee in front of him. "I became head of Midtown and I watched him carefully. I didn't trust him. I started to realize that he was planning on stealing the drive. He'd reached out and met with a thief. I didn't know when he was planning to do it, but the next thing I knew, he was trying to remove me from management. I don't know what he told the board, but it was going in his favor. Knowing I didn't have much time left, I decided to take the drive out of the vault and replace it with a fake. Only two days after that, the heist occurred, and a week after that, I was fired."

Mozzie and Peter were silent. Peter's mind was racing. He looked down at the flash drive on the table. Whoever held it held  _billions_ of dollars. If they drained each account, they'd be the richest people in the world. And no one would ever be able to track them down.

Peter picked up the flash drive. His own account information must be on it as well. That was unsettling. The first thing he was doing when this case closed was closing his Midtown account.

"How do you know about the drive, Agent Burke?"

"My friend got mixed up with Allen and Maverick. They think he stole the drive. They kidnapped him a few hours ago."

Graff's eyes widened.

"I'm going to have to take this with me," said Peter, lifting the drive.

"Please." Graff said. "I've always wanted it to get to the police. But, you see, they'd see it in my hands and rush to conclusions."

Peter paused. Graff was involved in illegal activity. He should be arresting him for that. But…

Graff was cooperating. He gave Peter information—more information than he'd expected. The man was no criminal.

Peter stood. "Thank you, Mr. Graff. Your information was incredibly helpful."

Graff stood quickly, before Mozzie and Peter could leave the booth. "Please, don't let that drive fall into the wrong hands. If Roger or this Maverick has it—"

"I won't." said Peter. "They're not getting away with this."

Graff smiled wanly. "I wish you luck in finding your friend."

Peter and Mozzie nodded their thanks at him. They left the coffee shop and Peter stared at the drive. "This…"

"-is  _genius_!" exclaimed Mozzie, snatching the drive out of Peter's hand and holding it to the light. "Pure genius! I can't believe I've never thought about it before-"

"Give me that." snapped Peter, taking it out of Mozzie's hands and putting it safely in his pocket. "Mozzie," sighed Peter, rubbing his face tiredly. "Using this would be stealing billions of dollars from  _innocent_ people!"

Mozzie stared at him. "I'm sure that more than half of them are not."

Peter shook his head. "Why do I bother?"

Peter stared into the darkened streets of New York, trying to work out a plan in his head that didn't involve Neal's death or the bankruptcy of millions of people. He sighed.

"Mozzie," he said. "I need your phone."

"Not a chance, Suit. I'm not replacing your phone with mine."

"No. I need to call Neal."


	8. Chapter 8

"—searching for him."

"That's not a huge concern."

"Burke's got a knack for finding the kid. We should move him. They're bound to link the manhole to this warehouse."

Neal stirred. Pain held him in a tight grip. It was hard to lift himself out of, as if he were trying to break through the surface of mud.

Slowly, cautiously, he opened his eyes. His head pounded. The edges of his vision were blurry, but Neal quickly made out Allen and Maverick standing before him, arguing, though it took him far too long to remember where he was.

It took Neal another moment to realize that time had passed. He was still tethered to the chair, but he wasn't lying on the floor anymore; he was sitting upright in it. It took a lot of effort to simply think past the fact that  _his head was killing him_. The dim florescent lighting of the warehouse was suddenly much brighter than he remembered and he squinted, trying to get the outlines of the two men in front of him to sharpen. His abdomen burned with waves of agony, as if it had been set on fire. He breathed hard, then grimaced; deep breaths and broken ribs were a bad idea _._ He was half proud of himself for holding out this long; he'd never been in an interrogation like this. He usually escaped captivity before it got this far. Regardless, a sinking feeling settled in his gut. He wouldn't be able to handle much more of this. Neal winced and lifted his head. Maverick noticed him. Neal braced himself.

 _Peter, hurry_.

"He's awake." said Maverick. Allen turned to look at Neal. He grinned.

"Caffrey!" said Allen loudly, and Neal winced at the volume. "Unfortunately we don't have as much time as I originally thought. The FBI has put out an alert for your abduction." He tilted his head. "That means we're going to have to get you to talk  _now_." He clasped his hands together. "What'll it be, Caffrey? Where's the drive?"

Neal didn't say anything. The simple act of breathing burned his ribs.  _Peter… where the hell are you?_

Maverick grinned wickedly, fisting his hand. "I'll get it out of him—"

"No, I need him to keep  _breathing_ ," said Allen firmly, stopping Maverick with a glare. "I think you've done enough. For now. I need him  _alive_  and I'm not sure how much restraint you actually have."

Maverick growled at that. "Well, we can't stay here any longer. We'd better move now," he said anyway, holding a cell phone. "It's all clear, just have to let him know."

"Good, go make the call. I'll get the car." He threw a glare toward Neal. "I'll work him over in the car, we'll get him to talk."

Neal swallowed hard. He watched Allen leave through a side door in the warehouse, and he vaguely caught a glimpse of the sky, noticing it was still dark. He tiredly wondered what time it was.

Maverick dialed a number on his phone and walked a few paces away, talking to whoever was on the other line.

Neal tugged at his restraints again, but he knew it was no use. He'd already tried to escape them, hours ago, before Maverick had knocked him out. The only chance of an escape now was when Allen and Maverick untied him from the chair to get him in the car. There was a small window of time that he could try to get away. But with a bad concussion and broken ribs?

Interrupting his thoughts, Neal felt a vibration in his pants pocket, startling him. His mind a little sharper from the sudden curiosity, Neal realized his phone was still in his pocket. Wouldn't Maverick and Allen have taken it?

 _Who cares_ , a voice in his head said. His phone was vibrating.

Someone was calling him.

Neal looked at Maverick. His back was still to Neal, still on the phone.

Realizing he needed to work fast, Neal started to reach a hand toward his pocket. The angle he was restrained prevented him from comfortably reaching more than a few centimeters.

But this might be Peter.

Neal reached harder, feeling the wire cut deeper into his wrist, but he didn't care. He had to get the phone. His abdomen painfully protested at his movement, and Neal cringed, pushing himself to reach farther. He could feel the material of his pants. Looking down, he realized he was only a few inches from the phone. He pushed even harder, watching the blood trickle down his wrists. His fingers grazed his phone, and Neal winced as the wire fought him. He grasped the phone with two fingers and slowly pulled it out of his pocket, reading the screen.

It was  _Mozzie_.

Just as Neal went to answer the call, Maverick turned around. His eyes immediately found Neal's phone in his hand and he hung up his own call and strode to Neal, taking the phone roughly from his hand, and used it to hit Neal painfully across the face, adding to his throbbing headache. Neal bit back a curse, tasting blood. Maverick looked at the screen, then at Neal. "Friend of yours?" he asked, his voice colored with anger.

Neal glared at him, but it was a vain effort. His head pounded viciously, and he shut his eyes to stop the spinning.

Maverick stared at the vibrating phone and seemed to make a decision. He answered the call and held the phone to his ear, staring at Neal.

"Hello."

Maverick's eyebrows shot up as he listened. "Oh, hello, Agent Burke."

 _Peter_? Neal lifted his head, cracking open his eyes.  _What was Peter doing with Mozzie's phone_?

Neal opened his mouth to shout but Maverick looked sharply at Neal, shaking his head. He knew what Maverick was telling him.

 _Do not speak_.

Looking from the phone to Maverick, Neal just reluctantly snapped his mouth shut and glared at him.

Maverick listened to whatever it was Peter was telling him. He seemed genuinely surprised. "He doesn't? You're telling me that Caffrey  _doesn't_  have my drive?"

Neal's heart dropped. Fear nearly paralyzed him. Why would Peter tell him that? Doesn't Peter know that Neal's only chance of survival rests on Maverick and Allen believing he had the drive?

"He didn't mention that." said Maverick flatly. He paused. "That's your play, Burke? Trade my drive for your boy?" Maverick listened and then laughed. "Oh, he's fine. We haven't touched him. Yet." His eyes narrowed. He sighed and he pulled the phone away from his ear. He covered the speaker with his hand. "He wants proof of life," he told Neal. "You tell him where we are or that you're injured, and I'll kill you right now."

Neal glared at him. He held the phone out and, hesitantly, Neal said, "Peter?"

"Neal," replied Peter, obvious relief in his voice. "Are you okay?"

Maverick stared dangerously at Neal, his free hand lifting his shirt to expose a gun. Neal steadied his voice. "I'm fine, Peter." said Neal, taking a breath, riding another wave of pain and composing himself so it didn't come out in his voice. "They haven't hurt me."

"I'm going to get you out of—"

"Now, Burke," said Maverick, pulling the phone back. "I'll give you Caffrey back in exchange for the drive. But if you bring the FBI into this, I swear to  _god_ , I'll kill him. I'll text you the location. One hour."

Maverick hung up the phone and texted Peter the location. As he did, Allen walked back into the warehouse.

"Change of plans." said Maverick, pocketing Neal's phone and crossing his arms, making his muscles flex.

"What?" demanded Allen, his face darkening. "What are you talking about?"

"Burke just called. Caffrey still had his cell on him."

"You didn't take it from him?" demanded Allen.

"You told me to get information out of him." said Maverick, unperturbed. "Nothing else."

Allen's eyes narrowed. "And you didn't even  _get_  it!" he growled. Allen turned roughly to Neal. "Anything else you're hiding?" Allen bent again, and started checking Neal's pockets. He stopped at Neal's jacket pocket and pulled out Neal's lock pick set. He threw it behind him and it hit one of the shelves. Neal groaned internally, staring after them. Allen stood and looked back at Maverick, then said. "What change of plans?"

"Burke has the drive." said Maverick. "Caffrey never had it."

"The  _FBI_  has it?" asked Allen, his voice rising.

"No, Burke does! He hasn't told the FBI."

"How do you know?"

"He's afraid we'll kill Caffrey."

Turning to Neal, Allen said, "He cares about his criminal informant, would you look at that." He sighed. "Alright, what did he say?"

"He wants Caffrey for the drive. I gave him a location."

"When?"

"One hour."

Allen nodded, thinking. "Okay. Okay, we'll do this. But Burke doesn't leave with Caffrey."

"Of course not."

Allen pulled out his gun. "You and Burke have been a pain in my ass." He turned to Neal and took wire cutters from his jacket. "You're not getting out of this alive. And neither is he."

"I'm not going to that exchange." said Neal firmly, though his unsteady voice betrayed his confidence. "Not if you're going to kill Peter."

"I beg to differ." said Allen. "You're in no position to be making demands, Caffrey. You are going to that exchange because I will drag you if I have to."

" _No_." Neal stared him down, deep defiance in his eyes. He wasn't going to let Peter walk into a trap. Not after everything the man had done for him. He'd die before he let them use him to get Peter. He tried to shake the blur from his vision and even let a little grin slip over his bruised features.

Allen circled Neal, narrowing his eyes. "You aren't very cooperative."

"That would be something you and Peter agree on, then." said Neal, shutting his eyes, unable to hold the man's gaze anymore. Why couldn't everything just stop moving?

Allen laughed. "Alright, Caffrey. Time to go. If you run, I'll shoot you. Then I'll shoot Burke."

Neal opened his eyes and set his jaw.

Allen cut Neal's wrists loose. Neal took a sharp intake of breath. He slowly brought his arms around, jerking forward to run but Allen's hand was suddenly gripping his shoulder again, painful enough to keep Neal put.

"Slowly," said Allen. "You try something, I'll—"

"You'll shoot me," said Neal through gritted teeth. "I get it."

"Get up."

Neal slowly straightened. He looked quickly at his wrists and caught his breath; they were rubbed raw. The hand on his shoulder tightened when Neal stood. He gasped as he rose, falling forward as the pain in his ribs erupted. The hand on his shoulder caught him and tightened, obviously assuming he was trying something. Neal breathed hard, and Allen yanked him up. Neal groaned, his hand flying to his abdomen protectively, the pain making his vision stutter dangerously. His head was still throbbing sharply, making the already-spinning room spin even faster. The grip on him tightened even more and dragged him forward.

"Van's outside." said Allen to Maverick. Allen started to half-walk, half-drag Neal to the door. His grip was crushing. Neal's breath was shallow and halting, every step like burning knives.

A million thoughts rushed desperately through Neal's mind, all escape routes. He could hit Allen with his free arm and run for it. And a healthy Neal Caffrey might have made it. But, being this injured, he wouldn't make it more than five feet before they caught him again. He was pretty sure Allen was carrying most of Neal's weight even now. Allen or Maverick would easily shoot him. Then they'd go to the exchange with Peter, shoot Peter and get the drive.

No, Neal had to think of something else. Something clever. Anything to keep them from getting him in that van. But clever was nearly impossible in his current state.

Neal looked at the door, his vision nearly double.

He had to at least try.

He wasn't going to let Peter walk straight into a trap.

Allen shoved Neal through the door, angering his ribs. Each step a new stab of pain in his side.

They were outside. The van was a mere ten feet away. Taking a quick glance at his surroundings, Neal recognized the area. Surrounded by a forest, stars quietly sneaking out of the clouds, the area stood empty and rustic. It was familiar. It was where he, Kate and Mozzie ended up after the heist and exited the manhole. Neal had been bleeding out on the ground. Apparently he had to be injured every time he came back here.

They were getting closer to the van. This was his only chance. Neal took a quick breath, then lurched to the side.

Allen hadn't been expecting it, falling underneath Neal's weight, and both he and Neal crashed to the ground. Neal landed on his side and cried out in pain as he hit the concrete. He pushed himself through it, grimacing and he rolled onto his back.

" _Bastard_!" yelled Allen, trying to get back to his feet.

Neal jerked himself up, pain flaring up so horribly he almost fell back to the ground. He groaned through his teeth and staggered to his feet, trying to keep his balance. He grabbed his side and started to run in the opposite direction of the van, toward the forest.  _How stupid_ , he thought.  _I could take the van_.

But it was too late. Pain erupted in his right leg and Neal cried out, his leg giving out beneath him. He hit the ground hard, crying out as his ribs erupted in pain, clutching his now-bleeding leg. Blood streamed through his fingers. Maverick was suddenly at his side, grabbing a handful of Neal's jacket and pulling him close to his face. Neal didn't even care; the pain whited out everything else. He just screwed his eyes shut and tried to keep from screaming.

"What did we tell you?" he spat. "What did we tell you we'd do if you tried something?"

"Get him in the van," growled Allen, pulling himself off the ground and angrily brushing rubble off of him.

"You—" hissed Neal, his leg throbbing sheer, white-hot pain. But Maverick only yanked him sharply by his hair, pulling Neal up and dragging him painfully to the van.

The van door was opened and Neal was thrown roughly inside. Without another word, Maverick shut the door and Neal was shrouded in darkness, feeling himself fading. Neal shut his eyes and welcomed the blessed unconsciousness, completely and utterly defeated.


	9. Chapter 9

"What time is it?"

"Quarter to three."

"They should be here soon."

"I know, Mozzie." Peter sighed, resting his head on the window of the car, allowing the coolness of the glass to soothe his growing headache. It wasn't his car nor Mozzie's. It was stolen.  _Borrowed_ , Mozzie had said. But Peter needed a car and he was desperate, so he let the conman talk him into it.

Mozzie was driving. He refused to let Peter drive him anywhere, on account of Neal's reviews of Peter's driving. Peter had sighed and tossed him the keys, too tired to care.

Peter turned the drive in his hand, the moonlight reflecting off the silver casing. He held it gingerly, as if it could have easily been a grenade.

"Did he sound okay?" asked Mozzie after a while. He didn't look at Peter, just at the road.

"He's okay." assured Peter. "They haven't hurt him; he's just leverage."

"They're going to kill him." said Mozzie, panic sinking into his eyes. His knuckles were white from his grip on the steering wheel. "They're going to take the drive and kill him."

"I'm not going to let that happen." said Peter firmly, lifting his head from the window. "Mozzie, I will keep him safe, I promise."

"A little too late for that."

That stung. Peter's words died in his throat. His guilt had been eating at him for hours.  _He_  put Neal on this case.  _He_  put Neal in danger.  _He_  was the reason Neal might not be okay.

"Mozzie," said Peter, trying to find words. "You know I never meant—"

"I know, Suit." Mozzie sighed, turning down another street. "Two minutes."

The address Maverick gave Peter was down at the end of the street.

"Mozzie," said Peter suddenly. "Stop here." Mozzie obeyed, giving Peter a quizzical look, and Peter said, "I need to go alone. He doesn't want me bringing friends."

"Alone?" asked Mozzie incredulously. "Suit, your valiance is noted, but-"

"Mozzie, just trust me." said Peter.

"I don't trust anyone!"

"How about faith, then? I'll be fine."

"'Faith means not wanting to believe what is true.'" Mozzie quoted almost robotically.

Peter sighed. "Not entirely," said Peter, trying to make something up. "Faith means… Well, it means that you trust someone even if you don't want to."

"Self-deception, Suit? Stooping so low?"

"Mozzie-" groaned Peter.

"I don't want you going alone!" said Mozzie, staring at him.

"Look, Mozzie." said Peter. "If something goes wrong, we shouldn't both be out there. If something happens, if they try to double-cross us, you'll be right here. Okay?"

Mozzie was silent. Though, even Peter could tell that Mozzie knew it was stupid for them both to approach the exchange. "I'll watch from here then," he said.

"I'll go get Neal." Peter and Mozzie shared a quick glance, then Peter got out of the car.

Peter started the short walk down, past the now-closed stores and dark windows. The street was deserted. A street lamp next to him flickered.

Peter approached the store Maverick had mentioned in the text. He stopped walking outside the door. Looking in, nothing moved. Everything was dark. It was an old antique shop. Was this where Maverick wanted to make the exchange?

"Hello, Agent Burke."

Peter whipped around to see Maverick standing behind him. Before he could react, Maverick lunged at him. Peter stumbled backward as Maverick grabbed him around the chest, crushing his lungs with his grip. Vaguely, Peter heard screeching tires against the pavement to his left.

Peter instinctively switched into his defensive training and hit Maverick hard with his elbow. Maverick cursed and Peter struggled to free himself from Maverick's grip, but the man didn't budge. Peter tried to reach for his gun, but Maverick seemed to know what he was thinking, and grabbed it from his holster before he had a chance. Maverick used Peter's own weapon to hit him across the face. Peter's head spun.

Peter was roughly shoved into a vehicle and his head hit the side of the van hard and he swore.

"Taze him."

Pain erupted in his neck and Peter slowly faded into darkness.

* * *

"Get him up."

Peter felt a sharp kick in his back, and his eyes shot open. He was lying on the ground, a cold, cement floor. He had a dull headache. Looking groggily around, he realized he was in a basement. The ground was gray, stained in places, and hadn't been cleaned very well. Dust hung in the air. Peter coughed and pulled himself up.

Maverick and Allen were standing over him. Peter pulled himself to his feet. Neither of them made any move to stop him. Peter faced them.

"Where—?" he asked.

"That's not of your concern." said Allen, waving away Peter's words. He held up the drive in his hand. He must have taken it out of Peter's pocket when Peter was unconscious. Peter kicked himself. He should have left it with Mozzie.

"Where's Neal?" demanded Peter.

"You'll see him soon." said Maverick.

Anger stirred in his chest. "I swear to god, if you hurt him—"

Maverick rolled his eyes. "Relax, Burke, he's fine. Now, we need to know what the FBI knows. Do they know about the drive?"

Peter hesitated. Should he tell them the truth, or scare them into thinking the FBI is on the way? Though, if he scares them, they'd probably just kill Neal and himself. "No." said Peter at last. "The FBI knows nothing. I didn't tell anyone anything."

"Why did you have the drive?" asked Allen.

Peter's mind raced for a lie. "It was in Neal's stash."

"His stash?" inquired Allen. "Maybe we should take a look at that sometime." Allen handed Maverick the drive. "Go. Start now." Maverick turned and left. Allen held up his gun and aimed it at Peter.

"Walk. Now." Peter reluctantly turned and walked, Allen's gun sharply prodding his back. The basement was a narrow hallway, with offices or janitorial closets down the hall. Allen led him to the one, and unlocked the door.

"It was nice doing business with you, Burke." said Allen. And he shoved Peter forward into the room. Peter fell forward, hitting the ground hard. Allen shut the door with a snap and Peter heard a lock click.

Pulling himself up again, Peter turned around in the small, stone-walled, gray room. It was lit by a slightly flickering fluorescent light in the ceiling, and wasn't any bigger than eight feet by eight feet. It was cleaned out except for a single chair.

And the chair wasn't empty.

"Neal!" gasped Peter, taking in the sight of his friend. His heart dropped in his chest; Neal was still, tied to the chair. A gag was tied in Neal's mouth and his chin rested on his chest. His face was bruised and there were dried blood stains on one cheek. Peter's heart skipped; Neal was a shade paler than he probably should have been. He was so still, in fact, that Peter was suddenly terrified he was…  _too_  still.

Peter rushed to his partner, kneeling at his side, putting a gentle hand on Neal's shoulder. He removed the gag and shook his shoulder. "Neal?" asked Peter.  _No, no, no,_  he thought desperately, searching his friend's pale face.  _Don't be dead, Neal, don't be dead…  
_  
Peter shook him again, a little harder, and to his relief, Neal stirred, letting out a low groan of pain. Peter's hand froze immediately, relief and concern hitting him at the same time.

"Neal, thank god," whispered Peter as Neal's eyes fluttered open. He was just wondering what caused Neal pain when Neal said, "I guess… It's three to nothing, now, huh?"

Peter's head whipped up. Neal's eyes were fully open now, and he was looking at him.

"Neal!" exclaimed Peter, a smile breaking out on his face for the first time all night. Then his eyebrows kneaded. "Three to what?"

"Three to nothing." said Neal hollowly. "You found me." His breath seemed shallow, too. He shifted slightly, then sucked in a gasp, losing even more color in his face. His eyes were screwed shut and it seemed to take all of his concentration not to make noise.

Peter's blood ran cold at the sight. He wanted to grip the younger man's shoulder but didn't want to hurt him. He eyed his partner more carefully. "Neal, are you okay? What's wrong?"

Neal didn't answer for a long moment. His face was chalk-white and he looked drained. He seemed like a shadow of the conman Peter was used to seeing. Neal shifted in the chair, cringing from the movement. He opened his eyes cautiously, pain written into them. Peter's heart thudded. Neal took a short breath and gave Peter an apologetic grin. "M'fine," he said quietly. "Jus' moved wrong. Mighta… broke some ribs." He shut his eyes again and breathed shallowly. "An' some other stuff." He hissed again. "Damn."

Peter's eyes fell to Neal's abdomen. He swallowed hard. "I'm gonna take a look," said Peter cautiously, fully expecting the younger man to protest. But Neal didn't. He just nodded fractionally, then stopped and winced, as if that motion had hurt. Peter's heart clenched tighter.

Peter's eyes fell back to Neal's abdomen. He carefully undid the buttons to Neal's dress shirt halfway down, and sucked in his own breath. Black and blue painted most of Neal's waist. Peter didn't even have to guess if they were broken. Anger and concern swept fiercely through him. Neal was bruised badly but not bleeding, and Peter let out an internal sigh of relief. If Neal had been bleeding, Peter had no idea how long it would take to get him medical attention. And as far as Peter could tell, Neal wasn't having any problems breathing, other than through the pain. A punctured lung would have been the last thing they needed.

Peter carefully fixed Neal's shirt back up, doing his best not to jostle him at all. "Did Maverick do this to you?" asked Peter through clenched teeth. At Neal's minute nod, Peter went on, "I'm going to kill that son of a bitch." He ran a hand through his hair and stood. He was quiet for a moment, half-seething and half-panicking. "Neal… You told me they didn't hurt you." said Peter, his eyes finding Neal's, surprised that his voice came out angry.

It took Neal a moment to find his voice again. He shrunk the slightest bit under Peter's gaze. "Maverick told me to… to tell you that." He shut his eyes briefly again. "Besides. Wouldn't wanna worry you. M'fine."

"Neal," said Peter, feeling helpless. He didn't know what to do. "What… what happened? After you were taken, what happened?"

"Interrogation." Neal said simply, laughing humorlessly, but stopped quickly and winced. "I didn't cooperate."

"You never do," muttered Peter.

"Wait—" Neal's eyes suddenly widened. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to…" started Peter, but he didn't feel like finishing the sentence.

Neal did for him. He cocked an eyebrow in a deflated expression. "Rescue me?"

Peter smiled grimly. "Trying to."

"Looks like you're not off to…" Neal suddenly cringed, as if he was warding off a wave of pain. He shut his eyes, clenching his teeth. "…to the best start."

Peter sighed, concern gripping his chest. "Neal, I'm going to get us out of here. Do you have anything to cut you loose?" Peter mentally kicked himself. From now on, he was carrying a pocket knife, first aid kit and a backup, Mozzie-proof cell phone.

Neal didn't respond. Peter looked back down, wondering if he heard him, but Neal's eyes were shut. Heart picking up in speed, Peter knelt back down and gently shook Neal's shoulder, and Neal's eyes slowly opened.

"Neal?" asked Peter cautiously.

Neal's eyes narrowed in confusion. He was looking at Peter like it was the first time he'd seen him in weeks. "…Peter? What're you doing here?"

Peter's heart sped, fear prickling in his veins. There was a slight dazed look in the conman's eyes that he didn't notice before. "Neal, did you hit your head?"

Neal looked at him, puzzled. "What? Jus' now?"

"No," said Peter, concern clipping his tone. "Earlier tonight."

Neal thought. For a bit too long. Peter's grip tightened unconsciously on Neal's shoulder. Something seemed to dawn in his eyes and Neal finally replied, "Yeah. A few times, I guess."

Peter sighed, feeling his panic rise. "Neal, you have a concussion." Peter looked at Neal's face, moving to the other side of him, and found what he was looking for; right under Neal's hairline was a small, deep red gash. Peter felt hot anger rising in his veins. "A bad one."

He was going to kill those bastards.

"Neal," said Peter gently, but impatience and urgency sharpened his tone. "Do you have anything I can use to cut you loose?" he asked again.

"No." said Neal, shaking his head, then stopped, seeming to realize that moving his head wasn't the best idea. "It's wire. Can't..." He trailed off, shutting his eyes.

Peter stood, looking around the empty room; it was devoid of anything.

"Do you have your lock picks?" asked Peter.

"Check my jacket pocket."

Peter turned back to Neal and reached for his jacket, being very careful not to jostle him. Neal's eyes followed Peter's hands, watching him. Peter checked both pockets, but they were empty. "They must have taken them."

"Oh," said Neal, seeming to remember. "Right." Then he said quickly, "Not the backup, though."

"Backup?" asked Peter blankly. "You have backup lock picks?"

Neal lazily rolled his eyes. "Duh."

"Where do you keep backups?"

"Left shoe."

Peter bent down again. It only took him a few seconds to find the two metal picks. He pulled them out and grinned up at Neal. "I've never admired you more."

"Aw, Peter."

Peter turned back toward the door and bent down to the lock, and then cursed.

"What?" asked Neal, a little delayed.

"It locks from the outside only," growled Peter. He dropped his hands. The picks were useless. "This will get us nowhere." He shook his head, massaging the back of his neck, trying to think of what to do.

"Can you… Can you untie me?"

Peter turned. Neal was taking a slow, shaking breath. Just now, Peter saw the angle that his arms were pulled behind him was putting harsh strain on his ribs.

Peter quickly circled Neal and inspected the wire binding his wrists. His breath caught again; Neal's wrists were rubbed raw and bleeding. It was wire and it was tight. He had to give the bastards credit, though. They knew Neal's efficiency with handcuffs.

Peter bent down, and reached for Neal's wrists, hesitant. The wire was wrapped around Neal's wrists more than once, but it seemed to be able to be unwound.  
"This might hurt," he warned.

"It can't hurt worse than this," said Neal in a quiet, strained voice.

Peter gently took hold of Neal's wrist with one hand, trying to avoid touching where the wire cut him. Peter gripped the wire between two fingers and pulled. He felt Neal immediately tense. The wire didn't budge. He tried again, pulling slightly harder, and Neal couldn't hold in a small cry of pain.

"Sorry, sorry," said Peter quickly, letting go immediately. "Neal, I'm… I have an idea, but it's not going to—"

"Peter, please, just do it." said Neal, his voice barely above a whisper.

Peter swallowed nervously, and looked down at what he was still holding: Neal's lock picks. If he could fit one of the picks underneath the wire, it would probably loosen it enough to unwind.

Taking a breath, Peter lifted one of the picks and, with a hesitant glance at Neal, he slid the pick underneath the wire. Neal jerked his wrist away involuntarily, but it worked; the pick was between his skin and the wire. Peter twisted the pick, slowly lifting the wire away from Neal's skin. Peter pulled at the wire hard, and Neal gasped. Fresh blood trickled down his hand.

Peter started to grab the wire, grateful that it started to unwind. Neal was incredibly still as Peter removed it, finally tossing it on the floor. "It's off." said Peter, releasing the breath that he'd been holding.

Neal slowly brought his arms around. Peter stood and looked at Neal; his face was even paler than before. He looked at Peter. "Thanks."

"Neal," Peter hesitated. "I'm sorry."

"Peter, I asked you to do it. It's fine."

"No," said Peter, shaking his head. "I'm sorry I put you on the case. I had no idea you were involved."

Neal looked away. "I was hoping it would stay that way."

"You should have told me."

"And then what would have happened?" asked Neal, looking at Peter. "You would have been... been okay with that?"

"Well…" Peter considered. "Alright, no, probably not. But, Neal, this is a killer we're talking about! Maverick is a  _killer_ , Neal! A killer you  _framed_! How could you let yourself get mixed up in this?"

"I didn't have a choice, Peter."

Peter's eyebrows shot up. "What do you mean, you didn't have a choice?"

"Danger has never stopped the FBI from putting me on a case. I'm just… just a tool in their belt, Peter, you... you know that."

"Not to me."

Neal just stared at the floor, looking suddenly exhausted. He blinked heavily, almost looking like it was a chore to keep his eyes open. "What did they want?" asked Neal, almost having to force the words. His breath was shallow. "The drive. What is it?"

Peter sighed, backing up to the wall and sitting in front of it. He clasped his arms across his knees and then briefly relayed to him what Graff had told himself and Mozzie. Neal's eyes had widened.

"That's…" began Neal, trailing off.

"I know." said Peter. "It's terrible."

"I was going to say genius."

Peter sighed. "You sound like Mozzie."

"Mozzie?" asked Neal, then something seemed to dawn on him. "You were with him?"

"I went to him when I realized that you and Maverick had met before."

"And he…" Neal paused. "He told you everything?"

"He put up a fight, but yeah, he told me everything."

"…everything?" asked Neal, quietly.

Peter knew why. "Yeah, Neal." He was quiet. Then, "Why me? Why call  _me_  that night?" It was a question that had been haunting Peter all night: during that heist five years ago, why would Neal have called him? The one man who wanted to catch Neal more than anyone else?

Neal shrugged, then winced, immediately regretting the movement.

"I was hunting you down, Neal."

"I don't know, Peter, I panicked." Neal shifted again, and Peter decided to drop the subject. He stood and walked back to the door, trying the handle again. It still wouldn't budge.

"We have to get out of here," said Peter, mostly to himself.

"Do you have your cell phone?" asked Neal quietly.

"No," said Peter, checking the bottom hinge of the door. "Mozzie threw it out of a window."

"What?"

"Long story."

"Well," said Neal, pressing a hand to his head and wincing. "Jones and Diana are tracking you, right?"

"Not exactly."

"Peter… The FBI knows we're here... right?" asked Neal slowly.

"…Not exactly."

Peter turned back to him. Neal looked stricken. "What do you mean they don't know?"

"I couldn't tell them! If I told them what Maverick and Allen were after, why they took you—"

"—they'd connect the dots."

"And the Bureau'd probably send you right back to prison. I wanted to tell them, but..." Peter didn't want to continue the sentence, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. "...Mozzie convinced me not to."

"Since when have you taken advice from Mozzie?" asked Neal incredulously. "Wait. Where… where is Mozzie?"

"He…" Peter thought. Mozzie stayed in the car when Peter had been attacked. Peter was taken in clear sight. Mozzie saw.

Mozzie  _knew_.

"Oh, god." Peter rubbed his face. "We didn't go to the exchange together. He saw Maverick and Allen take me. Our fate rests in Mozzie's hands."

"At least someone knows what happened to us." said Neal weakly.

"Neal, we need the FBI at this point!" exclaimed Peter. "It's  _Mozzie_! He's not going anywhere near-"

"Have some faith in him, Peter," said Neal softly, his eyes falling shut again.

Faith.

_Faith means not wanting to believe what is true_.

Those words could never be more appropriate.


	10. Chapter 10

Mozzie gripped the steering wheel tightly. He was frozen.

"Oh, God," he said to himself. "Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God—"

Peter was taken right before his eyes. Instantly, Mozzie's foot hit the gas pedal, ready to charge in for the rescue. Peter was thrown into the back of a van and the vehicle took off.

Against his instincts, Mozzie followed. He kept a safe thirty-yard cushion behind it, using proper tailing protocol. Close enough not to lose them, far enough away not to make them suspicious.

They drove for a while. Mozzie had learned that Maverick doesn't use turning signals or obey stop signs, which made Mozzie's job every bit harder, reminding him of the last time he'd driven with as much fear as he did now.

* * *

"Can you drive any faster, Moz?"

"I'm trying!" exclaimed Mozzie, taking another reckless turn through a red light, nearly hitting a car. Horns blared behind him and tires screeched into the night air, but Mozzie barely noticed. He looked in the rearview mirror, taking in Kate's terrified face. Tears streaked down her cheeks.

Neal was lying on the backseat of his car, his head resting in Kate's lap. Sweat beaded on Neal's forehead, mixing with the blood dripping down his face. Kate cupped his face with one hand, her fingers slick with his blood. She kept a hand on his shoulder, adding uneven pressure from her shaking fingers. Blood was still spreading quickly through his shirt and seeping through her fingers. Neal's face was even whiter now, nearly all the color gone. Mozzie's heart thudded. He'd never seen Neal so still.

"Is he—" began Mozzie, taking a breath, asking the question he didn't know if he wanted the answer to, "Is he—breathing?"

"I—I—" Kate hesitated, then moved her shaking hand from Neal's face to his chest. She rested it there for a moment, more tears trailing down her face. "I—I don't know, Moz, I—I can't tell!"

Mozzie blew through another intersection, missing another car by mere inches. More horns blared.

Neal wanted to go to a hospital outside of the city, but that wasn't happening. Neal didn't have  _time._ Mozzie made a rash decision, sharply turning around the car, and heading down a different street. Thrown by the sudden lurch of the car without a seatbelt, Kate fell off the backseat, hitting the back of Mozzie's seat, muffling a curse word. The movement roughly jostled Neal, and both she and Mozzie jumped when Neal started coughing.

" _Neal_!" exclaimed Kate, pushing herself back to the backseat, grabbing him by the shoulders and resting his head back on her lap. He coughed weakly, his face contorted in pain. He moved, seeming to be trying to get up. "Neal—don't move—you're going to be okay—"

"Why—" he said, his voice tight. "Why are you crying?"

His words only sent another tear rolling down her cheek, hitting Neal's shirt.

"What's—" he began, but he jerked violently, his arm shooting up to his shoulder, where Kate was applying pressure to stem the bleeding. He groaned in pain, his hand weakly landing over hers. "What's happening—?" Neal's face screwed up in pain again, and he looked at her with nothing but pain and confusion.

"Moz, how much longer?" Kate asked Mozzie desperately.

"Thirty seconds," he said anxiously avoiding another collision. "Just give me thirty seconds!"

Kate looked back down at Neal, and dread crawled into her veins. His eyes had fallen shut again and he became a great deal heavier. "Neal!" she cried, shaking him, the desperation in her voice sending a shiver down Mozzie's spine. "Neal, can you hear me?" She held in a sob, looking back up at Mozzie in the mirror. "Mozzie, he's—he's not breathing!"

" _What_?" he exclaimed. Mozzie weaved through the cars on the road, tearing the car out of traffic and into the parking lot of the hospital. He slammed on the brakes at the front doors. "Go! Get help! I'll stay with Neal!"

Without hesitation, Kate jumped out of the car and dashed through the front doors. Mozzie kicked open his door and ran to the back, kneeling beside Neal. His heart nearly froze in his chest; Neal was nearly covered in blood. It spread quickly through his shirt, now that Kate wasn't applying any pressure. With a nervous hand, Mozzie took her place, pressing his hand down on the wound, staring at his friend's pale face. "Neal… Neal, please be okay," he whispered.

Mozzie heard footsteps pounding behind him, and he squeezed Neal's arm one last time, then backed away from his friend as a group of doctors came running to the car. They carefully lifted Neal out of the car, and placed him gently on a gurney, wheeling it quickly back into the hospital. Kate didn't leave his side.

Mozzie didn't accompany them. He grabbed the arm of one of the doctors, pulling him back as the rest disappeared into the hospital. The doctor looked at Mozzie. "He's in good hands," he said assuringly.

Mozzie didn't smile. "I'm going to be straight with you," he said, taking a breath. "That man is a criminal."

The doctor turned to where Neal and the other medical staff disappeared into the building. "He is?"

"Yes," said Mozzie, hoping he wasn't making a mistake. "And I'm willing to offer you five thousand dollars to keep his presence here silent."

Mozzie waited, watching something change in the doctor's face. He looked up at Mozzie, and said, "Make it seven."

Mozzie's eyes widened. "Seven?"

"Yes, seven." the doctor said, his voice harsh. "If you want me to keep his secret, then make it seven."

Mozzie's eyes narrowed. "Fine. Seven."

"I want the money before he leaves," said the doctor. "Or I let him die on that table."

Mozzie opened his mouth to say something, but the doctor stopped him.

"Don't think this is the first time that  _your kind_ have tried to pull one over on us."

"Fine." said Mozzie shortly.

"Good."

"An FBI agent is going to call you tonight," said Mozzie. The doctor looked up. "His name is Peter Burke. He's going to ask if you treated any gunshot victims, and you're going to tell him you did not."

The doctor nodded. "Understood."

Mozzie and the doctor made their way into the hospital, pausing at the front desk. The doctor looked at the receptionist. "Where did they put him?"

"They're headed to the surgical ward," she said, "but his room will be on the third floor, room fourteen."

The doctor nodded. "Good. But we are not treating any gunshot victims, and that room has been empty all night and will remain empty." He winked at her.

The receptionist nodded. "I understand, doctor."

"By the end of the night," the doctor told Mozzie. Mozzie nodded, watching the doctor leave, and then collapsed in one of the waiting room chairs. He sighed, leaning his head against the wall. He didn't know how long he sat there, but when he opened his eyes, he saw Kate sitting next to him.

Her eyes were red, and tears were still freely falling down her cheeks. She stared at her hands, stained deep red with Neal's blood.

"Hey," said Mozzie gently. She didn't look up. Mozzie suddenly realized that he'd never spent much time alone with her. It was always Neal who brought them together, and Neal was usually with them when Kate was around. "He's going to be okay," said Mozzie softly.

"That's—" she began, wiping another tear. "That's not what they said."

"What did they say?" asked Mozzie, fear spiking into his veins.

"They said they would  _do what they could,"_ she said.

So… hospital talk for  _we don't think we can save him._

"Hey, hey," said Mozzie, straightening in his chair. He wasn't good at this—he didn't know how to comfort her. Neal was good at that stuff—the  _people_ stuff.

 _What would Neal do_? wondered Mozzie, watching another tear fall down Kate's cheek.

Mozzie put a gentle hand on Kate's shoulder. "He's going to be okay."

"Moz, we don't know—"

"Look," said Mozzie. Through the touch, he realized that Kate was shivering. He took off his jacket and put it around her shoulders. "Neal is going to be okay. I've never met anyone like him. And if there's one thing I know about him, it's that every time he tries to do the impossible, he  _does._ " He smiled. "Neal needs us to believe he's going to be okay."

Kate looked at him. "But—"

"If you don't believe it, con yourself into thinking it. Neal needs us."

After a moment, Kate forced a small smile. "Neal's… okay." Kate suddenly moved closer to Mozzie, resting her head on his shoulder and shut her eyes.

"He always is," said Mozzie quietly.

Mozzie leaned his head back against the wall, and shut his own eyes.  _He's going to be okay._

* * *

 _"He's going to be okay_ ," Mozzie whispered to himself.

After twenty minutes of reckless driving, Mozzie finally realized where Maverick was driving. Mozzie pulled over before Maverick stopped, and watched as Maverick's car disappeared into the parking lot next to Midtown Mutual.

Midtown had more than one bank in the area, and this one was on the opposite side of town, far from the bank Neal had been taken from. Mozzie knew what they were doing here; they were taking the money. The fastest, smartest way to get their money from the drive would be at an ATM.

Mozzie turned off the car, watching Maverick stop his car. He got out and opened the back door, dragging an unconscious Peter Burke outside.

Heart drumming, Mozzie wondered what to do. He couldn't go in after Maverick; he was no match. Mozzie wasn't a fighter; he worked behind the scenes. He didn't usually find himself in a position like this.

He needed help. But from who?

"No." said Mozzie aloud, as his mind supplied him with an answer. But…

It really was the only way.

Mozzie sighed loudly, pulling out his phone. His fingers hesitated above the keys. He looked up at Midtown again, trying to calculate just how far he would get trying to rescue Neal and Peter on his own.

"Oh, who am I kidding," he muttered, though still hesitant. He dialed the number and hit  _send_. The moment it rang, his thumb reflexively hit the  _end_ button suddenly nervous.

Mozzie sighed. He tried again, dialing, and waited as it rang. After the second ring, he heard an answer.

"Berrigan."

He hung up again. His heart drummed in his chest. Now his phone number was in the FBI database. He'd have to trash it now.

Did he really  _need_  the FBI?

"Oh, screw it."

Mozzie dialed the number again and waited.

* * *

Diana Berrigan was never a patient person. Everyone knew that irritating her was playing with fire. She'd even managed to teach Neal that.

So when her phone rang for the second time with no answer, Diana slammed it back down on her desk, seething.

Diana wasn't sitting; she hasn't taken a seat in hours, not since Peter went missing. She'd been trying to reach him—the entire bureau has—but he wasn't answering his phone. Now both Peter and Neal were MIA.

The FBI wasn't completely clueless, though. They knew Peter and Neal went to meet Roger Allen, the manager of Midtown Mutual. They knew Maverick was the thief, and they knew, from listening to Neal's radio, rewinding the audio, that Allen and Maverick were working together, and they wanted this  _drive_.

But they didn't know  _why_.

" _What?"_ thundered Hughes when Diana called him after Peter left. "What do you mean Caffrey and Burke are missing?"

"Sir, Caffrey's been abducted by the thief. We still can't figure out how they got him out of the building—"

"How did this happen?!" demanded Hughes.

"We're not exactly sure—"

"Where's Peter?"

"I… don't know," admitted Diana.

"What? Wasn't he there?" asked Hughes. "Wasn't this  _his_ stakeout?"

"Yes, but when Caffrey was taken he left. He took a taxi somewhere."

Hughes sighed, exasperated. "Damn it, did you call him?"

"He's not picking up."

Hughes swore again. "Where is Jones?"

"He's here." said Diana, watching Jones instruct a group of agents in the lobby of the bank.

"I need you two to get back here, read up every file of Maverick and Roger Allen, find everything that gives a hint as to where they are."

"Yes, Sir."

Diana hung up and relayed Hughes' orders to Jones, and they both immediately left for the office.

That was over two hours ago, and they still had close to nothing. Agents were sent to every known safe house of Allen and Maverick's—there weren't many—but they all came up empty. There were no ties between Maverick's past and Allen's either. The FBI had almost nothing to go on.

Though, thirty minutes ago, some agents discovered a manhole underneath a dumpster outside the bank. They followed it to a warehouse outside of Queens, and stormed the building. No one had been inside, but they did find bloodstains on the ground. Diana only hoped that it wasn't Neal's.

It just didn't make sense; why was Neal kidnapped? What did he have, or what did Maverick and Allen want?

"…You okay?"

Diana looked up. Jones was watching her, concerned.

"Yeah, fine. Phone just rang twice with no reply." Diana sighed exasperated. "Damn prank calls."

"Diana, do you want to get some rest? Just take a break?"

"No, no, I'm fine." Diana moved a stack of files, full of useless information, from one side of her desk to the other. "Did you find anything?"

"Nothing. No one has any idea why Caffrey was taken."

"Where's Hughes?"

"In his office. He's been on the phone for the past two hours." Jones gestured, and Diana followed his gaze. Hughes was on the phone all night, angrily conversing with someone. Diana was just glad it wasn't her this time.

Diana shook her head. "What the hell was Peter thinking?"

"You know Peter," said Jones, shrugging. "He's probably got a plan."

"Or he was taken as well," said Diana.

"We'll find them. We just have to keep looking."

Optimism. That was something Diana didn't quite understand.

She was about to move to a new stack of files when her phone rang again. She snatched the phone up angrily and demanded, "Who the hell is this?"

"Someone who's... temporarily changed allegiances," said a voice.

"You've got to be kidding me." muttered Diana. She went to hang up, but the voice spoke again.

"Wait, wait, I have information for you!"

Diana paused. "What kind of information?"

"It's about Agent Burke."

"Who is this?"

"His… associate."

Diana's eyebrows shot up in confusion. "His what?" Who—

It clicked in her head. "Mozzie?"

" _Dante Haversham_ ," said Mozzie with emphasis. "These are FBI lines, Suit!"

Diana ignored him. "Have you seen Peter tonight?"

"Yes," said Mozzie. "Long story short... I know what Maverick wants."

"What is it?" Diana snapped her fingers, getting Jones' attention. He rushed to her desk. "What does Maverick want?"

"Unfortunately he already has it," said Mozzie. "It's a flash drive with the ability to drain Midtown Mutual clients' accounts."

"Oh my God," said Diana hollowly. "Where's Peter now?"

"That's the problem," said Mozzie. "He contacted Maverick and set up an exchange: the drive for Neal. But Maverick double-crossed him and he was taken. I followed them to the Midtown Mutual on Forest Avenue, across town. I'm watching them now."

Diana turned to Jones. "Get a team to the Midtown Mutual on Forest, now."

Jones nodded. "On it." He rushed to Hughes' office.

"Mozzie," she said firmly. "Stay where you are, or go home. Actually, go home. You've done great, but do  _not_ go into that bank."

"You know, I don't appreciate Feds giving me orders."

"Take it as a  _suggestion_ , then, and get the hell out of there. Maverick is a murderer, Mozzie."

"Just hurry."

The line went dead; Mozzie hung up. Diana dropped her phone back to her desk and called out, "I need a team to Midtown on Forest,  _now_!"

"What's going on? Did you find him? Did you find Peter?"

Diana turned around, and was surprised to see Elizabeth entering the white collar unit.

"Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth looked shaken. "Peter told me he was going on a stakeout tonight, but he said he'd be home by one. It's three-thirty. He wasn't answering his phone so I called Hughes, but Hughes said… He said—"

"We know where Peter is," said Diana, reaching out a comforting hand to Elizabeth's shoulder, and she felt the woman relax a little. "We know where he is, we… we just have to get him out of there."

"Is he going to be okay?" she asked.

"We're going to find him right now," said Diana, grabbing her coat and following the group of agents heading out of the offices.

"Can I—"

"Berrigan!"

Diana stopped as Hughes called down to her. He rushed down the stairs. "You've got Peter and Caffrey's location?"

"Neal?" asked Elizabeth. "Is Neal okay?"

"Elizabeth?" asked Hughes, surprised. "Didn't I send an agent to your house for protective detail?"

"I left before he arrived," admitted Elizabeth.

"We can't—" he began, but Elizabeth cut him off.

"Please, is my husband going to be okay?"

Hughes hesitated. "We don't know, yet." He looked at Diana. "Go to Midtown with Jones."

"Yes, Sir."

"I'll be coming right after you," he said. "I'll call S.W.A.T."

Hughes turned to Elizabeth. "We will tell you once we know anything." He squeezed her arm in a comforting way and gave her a small smile. He then turned and went back to his office. Diana started to leave again, but Elizabeth stopped her.

"Can I come with you?"

Diana hesitated. "Elizabeth, I really can't take a civilian on a case like this, I'm sorry."

Elizabeth paused. "I understand."

With a last apologetic glance, Diana turned and followed the rest of the agents out of the white collar unit.

Elizabeth stared after her, making a decision in her head. She quickly turned and left the unit, taking the vacant elevator, heading back downstairs. She might  _understand_ that she should stay out of an FBI case, but…

It didn't mean she was going to.


	11. Chapter 11

"Neal!"

Someone was saying his name. Someone he knew. The voice sounded miles away, as if it were yelling to him through water. There was something addictive holding him underneath the surface of reality, and Neal didn't want to leave it. The pain was wavering between burning agony and numbness.

"Neal, come on, look at me."

His mind was murky. It would take effort to try to dig himself out of it. But that voice, that  _familiar_  voice, was getting concerned.  _Scared,_ even.

"Neal,  _please—"_

And suddenly the murkiness was thinning, the desperation of the voice breaking through to him. Everything suddenly felt real. The pull of unconsciousness was wearing off and Neal realized it was Peter talking to him. Neal searched for his voice.

"Wake up, Neal, wake  _up_ —"

"P-Peter?" asked Neal cautiously, cracking his eyes open. Peter was right in front of him, kneeling on the ground, with a certain fear in his eyes that Neal had never seen before. Neal saw Peter visibly relax.

"Neal," he said, sighing in relief. "Don't  _do_ that!"

"Don't… don't do what?" asked Neal. The fluorescent lighting in the room was hurting his head.

"You stopped responding to me." said Peter, and from his tone, Neal realized Peter must have been trying to wake him up for quite some time.

"H-how long was I…?" asked Neal.

"I don't know," said Peter. "Maybe ten minutes?" Seeming satisfied that Neal was still breathing, yet still a little shaken, Peter stood and looked at the ceiling. "While you were out, I found an escape."

"You did?" asked Neal, not even attempting to follow Peter's gaze. Any movement of his head doubled his headache. Instead, he stared at the ground, watching his blood hypnotically drip to the floor. He'd almost forgotten he'd been shot. After the pain in his head receded a bit his leg fought for his attention. It burned steadily. The bullet hit in in the thigh, and Neal couldn't tell if it was a through-and-through or not. He couldn't tell how much he'd bled already thanks to the dark, dusty floor, but he figured at the rate it was bleeding now it wasn't good.

"There's an air vent up here. If we use the chair, we can climb through and find the nearest room, get out and run like hell. I'll call Diana the minute we're safe and we'll get you to a hospital."

Neal tore his gaze away from the blood, and looked at Peter. Peter was not going to be happy. "That's… That's a great plan, Peter, but I can't… run." Neal shifted gently in the chair, wincing as it sparked flashes of pain behind his eyes.

"What do you mean, 'you can't run?'" asked Peter, shifting his gaze from the air vent to Neal. He raised an eyebrow. "Before I caught you, you ran for fifteen years straight."

"I mean, I can't  _physically_ run." explained Neal, seeming as if he didn't want to say the words.

"What do you mean?" asked Peter nervously.

"I… Well, Maverick covered all his bases." said Neal, and Peter watched as Neal slowly straightened his leg, and Peter noticed the blood dripping to the ground.  _How could he have missed that?_

"Neal…" breathed Peter. Suddenly he was angry. "Neal, I told you to tell me if you were hurt!"

Neal looked away, lacking the strength to argue and Peter didn't have the heart to chastise him. "Neal…"

"He told me not to run." said Neal. "But I did anyway."

Peter pulled off his tie and bent down again, starting to wrap Neal's leg with it to stop the bleeding. He pulled it tight, and Neal winced.

"Neal, are you hurt  _anywhere else_?" asked Peter, as he tied the makeshift bandage.

"Head, side, leg…" whispered Neal, seemingly to himself. "No, I think that's it."

Peter rested his hand on Neal's uninjured leg. Neal was in worse shape than he'd been led to believe, and it was bad to begin with. Peter looked up at Neal's face, and noticed that Neal's eyes had slipped shut again, his chin falling back to his chest.

"No, Neal," said Peter firmly, shaking Neal's good leg. Fear snaked through Peter's veins. It took a moment for Neal's eyes to flutter open. "Stay with me, here. You can't let yourself go into shock."

Neal shut his eyes again, and said, "It's… It's getting harder to stay awake."

"No!" Peter shook Neal's leg again. Neal reluctantly opened his eyes. "Neal, come on, keep your eyes open!"

"What's in it for me?" asked Neal weakly.

"What's in it for you?" asked Peter incredulously. "You'll stay alive, that's what's in it for you!"

"I guess that's… worth it, then."

"Neal," said Peter, though he knew the answer. "Do you think you can climb through the air vent?"

"I think I'd pass out in the air vent."

Peter sighed again. Neal was horribly bad off. He still couldn't believe he hadn't noticed his friend had been  _fricken shot_. Back in the car with Mozzie, Peter had been under the impression that aside from a few bruises, Neal was perfectly fine. But now... the kid could hardly put two thoughts together. Even as Peter watched him now, Neal's gaze wavered on him. He kept blinking fast, his eyes dilated and messed up. Blood was still trickling down his forehead from a cut hidden in his hairline.

Somewhere in that concussed head of his, Peter knew Neal was aware of how badly he was injured. And that passing out meant far worse than simply  _passing out_. The last thing Peter wanted to do was leave him. Neal had already blacked out  _once_! If Peter hadn't been here to wake him...

Peter's hand throbbed. He opened his eyes and quickly realized he'd pulled it into a tight, painful fist. He released it and tried to slow his heart. They didn't have many choices. They had to get out of this place and they had to do it  _now_.

Peter sighed. He was going to have to switch to plan B. He didn't like plan B.

"Alright," he said. "Neal, I'm going to go through the air vent, and you're going to stay here. I'll get out of here, unlock the door and get you out." Peter paused, looking into Neal's eyes. Neal was staring at the ground. Peter suddenly wondered if Neal had even heard a word that he said. "Okay?"

Neal nodded slowly, though he stopped the movement abruptly and winced. "...Okay."

"You have to stay awake, Neal," said Peter firmly. "You can't pass out, do you hear me? Understand?"

"Yeah." said Neal softly. He shut his eyes again, but not for long. He seemed to be fighting to keep them open.

Fear twisted Peter's heart. "Neal, I'm serious."

"I know, Peter." Neal's gaze was stronger this time, his voice a fraction steadier. It was clearly taking all of his effort to do so.

"Alright," said Peter reluctantly. "I'm going to need this chair."

"Take it." said Neal, and he started to slowly sit up. Peter put an arm around him, sharing his weight, and Neal cried out. Peter released him immediately, and realized he pressed into what must have been broken ribs.

"Neal," whispered Peter. "Are you-"

Neal breathed hard, blinking his eyes back open. "'m fine," he said brokenly, though his fingers still ghosted his ribs protectively. Peter felt a sharp stab of guilt.

Peter swallowed hard, an icy chill slipping down his spine at the amount of color that drained from Neal's face after inches of movement. "Slower... this time," he said quietly. Neal nodded and Peter slipped an arm around his upper torso, doing his best to avoid his ribs. He tightened his hold and  _ever so slowly_  started to pull Neal to his feet. Neal clenched his teeth, grunting as he put pressure on his leg, and Peter quickly took more of his weight. He kept a sharp eye on Neal's face as he led the younger man to the wall, and helped to sit him down on the ground in front of it, lowering him as gently.

"Are you okay?" asked Peter, looking carefully at his partner. Neal rested his head back against the wall, and slowly straightened his leg. He hissed as he did, trying to alleviate the pain from the gunshot wound, but grimaced sharply and jerked back, his hand rushing to his abdomen.

Peter's hand shot to his shoulder, watching helplessly as Neal rode the wave of pain, the agony flashing across his features. He breathed hard through his teeth, his muscles taut under Peter's fingers. It took a terrifyingly long time for Neal to begin to relax, his eyes cracking open. He caught his breath hollowly. "Shit," he whispered.

"You're going to be okay, Neal." assured Peter after a moment, but his voice came out shaken and unsure. Neal blinked heavily, then, and fear rushed down Peter's spine. "Neal," said Peter, "you have to stay awake—"

"I know, Peter," snapped Neal weakly, doing his best to force his eyes to stay open. "I heard you the first three times."

But both of them knew that it was only a matter of time before staying awake was completely out of Neal's control.

Neal shivered, and Peter suddenly wished he hadn't left his jacket in the Municipal Utilities van.

Peter gave Neal's shoulder a gentle squeeze, wishing he could do something for Neal.  _Anything_. But it seemed that the only thing Peter could do for him right now was get him out of the bank. Hating the idea of leaving him alone, Peter reluctantly stood. "I'll be right back, Neal, I promise."

"I'll be here." said Neal. He gave him a weak smile Peter stood on the chair, removed the ceiling tile to the air vent, and pulled himself through, disappearing out of sight.


	12. Chapter 12

Roger Allen was not an easy person to get along with, and he knew that. He didn't normally work with a partner and he'd forgotten why after all of these years. But it didn't take too long for him to remember; no one worked well with him.

Maybe it was his fault, he didn't know, but he also didn't care. He didn't care about most things. There was only one thing he actually did care quite a bit about.

Money.

Allen knew early in his life that it didn't matter what he had to do, he just wanted money, and as much as he could get. Did he need to spend it? Not necessarily. Money was more than a currency to be traded for material things.

It was control.

People with money could move the world around, just like puppets. The rich had no worries. Money was safety, security, happiness.

Money was everything.

That was what first appealed to Allen about working at a bank. Banks' sole purpose was to house money, protect it and circulate it. And, like any other business, take it. Fines, fees, interest rates—banks played dirty, just like any other corporation out there.

Allen worked at many banks before he found Midtown Mutual. He started off as a security night guard, patrolling corridors and stopping thieves. It was probably the worst influence to give someone like him. He watched and learned from the thieves, noting what they did well, what they got away with, and what got them caught. Working in the bank as a guard for nearly eight years, Allen learned much about the business and the upkeep of a bank. Not only that, he learned all about the vault.

Bank vaults were bulletproof, some having more than six-foot thick metal walls. There was a reason why they were originally known as strongrooms. Many of them could withstand natural disasters or even nuclear blasts. Though impressive, Allen couldn't care less about how  _protective_  vaults could be.

Vaults typically hold a quarter of a million dollars in cash, but that didn't include the worth of safety deposit boxes. That value could be priceless. The idea of walking around inside a building that held so much value excited Allen. His greed grew.

He didn't commit a crime at the bank until his ninth year working at a downtown bank called Loch. He had spent his eight years as a security officer at Loch and finally asked to be promoted out of security and into a management position. Because security and management were so different, he wasn't able to get up very high. He was promoted to teller, but he was fine with that; it got him exactly where he needed to go. Within the first week he was teller, he'd formulated a plan and robbed the bank, then left the state and came to New York.

Then he found Midtown Mutual.

He didn't have to worry about Midtown finding out about the employee who robbed Loch Bank in Minnesota. That employee's name was Jacob Wrestler, he had a beard and mustache, and southern drawl. Roger Allen was clean shaven, North Eastern and had a shining resume.

It didn't take long for him to find out about the flash drive. When he did, his greed began to control him. In Minnesota, he walked away with tens of thousands of dollars. This flash drive?

This was tens of  _millions_.

And that's what Roger Allen was thinking as he plugged the drive into the computer in the manager's office of the Forest Midtown Mutual bank. The monitor lit up with windows, Allen's face alight with glee. It was working. Allen typed furiously, beginning to wire the first client's thousands to his own secure, untraceable account.

Maverick watched over his shoulder. He shook his head in amazement. "That simple?"

"That simple." said Allen, not tearing his eyes away. He typed for a few more moments, then watched as the first client's money drained straight into his account. He laughed, holding the monitor tightly with one hand, as if that could get him closer to the money.

"And half goes into my account?" said Maverick. Allen felt a pull in his chest. That was the other reason he didn't work well with others.

Sharing.

But Allen knew Maverick, knew what he was capable of. He wasn't going to screw over a murderer.

But he also wasn't giving him  _half_.

"You'll get twenty percent," said Allen. "That was what we agreed on."

"Yes," said Maverick. "But that was before I had to kidnap an FBI agent. Now I want half."

"Well, that's too bad, then. We had a deal."

Maverick suddenly lifted his weapon. "Or maybe I'll take it all, then."

Allen slowly turned. "Alright, alright, you want half? You'll get half, once you deal with that FBI agent and his criminal informant. Deal?"

Maverick didn't lower his weapon. "Half."

"Half." agreed Allen, and Maverick lowered his weapon.

"I can't get them myself," said Maverick, then he considered. "Maybe, actually. That Caffrey's pretty close to dead."

Allen sighed and stood then activated all of the clients' accounts. They all began to drain. And soon, they'll all be his.

* * *

Peter was getting tired.

No, it was more than that. Bruised was more like it. The air inside the vents was even more stale than the air in the basement. Peter heaved himself across the vent, wondering his long it would take to find an exit. Any exit. He just needed to get out of the damn thing and go back to open the door for Neal.

Peter's heart dropped in his chest, thinking of Neal. He'd left his partner—his friend—sitting alone, hurt and completely vulnerable. Peter hated himself for it.

But what other choice did he have? There was no way he could get out of that room.

Peter heaved himself around a tight corner in the air duct, and grunted as the corner dug into his side. He wasn't meant to be crawling through an air vent, that was clear. He barely fit as it was.

Neal's image flashed to his mind again and sent chills down Peter's spine. He wondered if Neal was still awake, still conscious. He prayed that he was; if Neal passed out again he might never wake up.

Peter pushed himself to go faster, feeling brush burns scraping his knees. Peter squinted, seeing a light glowing ahead of him.

Peter's heart sped; he found an exit.

He doubled his speed and made his way awkwardly and painfully to the opening. It was a grate, and looking through it, it opened at ground level to an empty office on the first floor. Peter grinned to himself.

The door was open.

Yanking the grate off and setting it aside, Peter twisted himself around in the vent, accidentally scraping his waist on the metal, his shirt ripping. Ignoring the sharp pain, Peter crawled into the room. He pulled himself to his feet and peered out of the doorway; the coast was clear. No sign of Allen or Maverick.

Peter was about to leave when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. The computer monitor on the desk was flashing. He turned and circled the desk, looking at the flashing images on the computer screen and froze.

The flash drive was in the USB port of the computer.

Peter slowly sank into the chair, his eyes following as money was drained into an offshore account. Allen must have designed some sort of software to do this automatically.

Allen was at around two hundred thousand dollars. But there were millions and millions more. Looking up, making sure he was still alone, Peter grasped the flash drive and pulled it out of the computer.

The windows on the monitor stuttered and a notice popped up.

_Device ejected improperly. Transfer interrupted. Please reconnect._

Peter dropped the flash drive in his pocket, grinning at his own luck. He checked the hallway again, and deciding it was clear, he headed down to find Neal.

It was time to get the hell out of here.


	13. Chapter 13

Neal fought the urge to shut his eyes. Fatigue was settling heavily on him.

He didn't know how long Peter had been gone. It could have been minutes, could have been hours; his sense of time was completely off.

Neal had never felt this disconnected. He was always the smooth, savvy conman, thinking two, even three steps ahead of everyone else. He made it his goal to be the smartest guy in the room and he usually achieved that.

But he'd never felt this behind. His mind was slow and halting, his thought process nearly blank. This wasn't him. He wasn't used to struggling to string thoughts together.

Shifting slightly, Neal tried to move into a better position. The way he was sitting now made his side burn harshly, thanks to what must be broken ribs. If he could move to the corner of the wall, it would prop him up much better.

Neal shifted again, moving barely an inch across the wall, surprised that it didn't cause him a terrible amount of pain. Encouraged, Neal continued moving across the wall, inch by inch.

His mind seemed to sharpen. The movement was making him more alert and his mind gained clarity. Not much, but things felt a great deal less surreal.

Neal slid himself across the wall again, trying to cover a few more inches this time, but he'd pushed himself too hard. His side burned sharply and Neal leaned his head back against the wall, waiting for the pain to subside.

Opening his eyes again, Neal realized he made it to the corner of the room. He let himself lean in the corner, giving his muscles a break. He just focused on his breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

In.

Out.

It took Neal a moment to realize he was drifting off again. He lifted his head from the wall. He needed to stay awake.

Deciding it was a bad idea to make himself comfortable, Neal sat back against the wall, away from the corner, and kept his head from falling back to it. He needed to stay alert.

So, Neal tried to think. The first thing that came to his mind was what Peter told him what the drive was capable of.

Millions of untraceable dollars. It was the score of a lifetime.

Neal wondered if Peter would be ashamed that Neal's first thought was of how incredible it would be to have that kind of money. A small—very small, almost inaudible—voice in the back of Neal's mind reminded him that he was reformed. He shouldn't have thoughts like this anymore.

But he did.

And that was what conflicted Neal the most. He liked working with the FBI, but he also liked working against them. He couldn't have it both ways.

Neal opened his eyes. He wondered how long they'd been closed; he didn't remember shutting them. The dazed feeling he had told him that he was drifting again.

Neal sighed. Staying awake was far more difficult than he thought it was going to be.

Suddenly, Neal heard something. It was faint, but it was coming from the door. Someone was unlocking it.

Relief washed over Neal like a tidal wave; Peter was back. He'd gotten out of the air duct and came back for him. He was going to get Neal out of here and Neal was going to the hospital.

All was well.

The door opened. Neal looked up, ready to chastise Peter for taking so long, but his words died in his throat. It wasn't Peter at the door.

It was Maverick.

Maverick froze. He looked around the room, his anger rising. "Where's Burke?"

"He's not in there?" Allen appeared behind Maverick. They both surveyed the small room, then looked at Neal. "Well?" spat Allen. "Where'd he go?"

Neal didn't say anything. Peter had been so close to saving them.

So close.

"Well?" demanded Allen, furious. He turned to Maverick. "What the hell do we do now? If Burke goes to the FBI—"

"He won't," said Maverick. "Phone lines and security systems are down. And he's not leaving this bank without Caffrey."

"Do you know that for sure?" asked Allen. "I mean, look at him, he's already dead."

"Go to hell," hissed Neal, eyes shutting again. He could barely keep them open. The pull of unconsciousness was so appealing. He just wanted to fade into the nothingness. No more fear. No more pain.

"Get him up. We'll go through with the plan. Forget Burke."

Maverick grabbed Neal's arm roughly, lifting him with ease. The movement  _exploded_  agony in his ribs. He cried out, his vision whiting out dangerously as the pain spread like a fire to every nerve. He blinked profusely, his eyes watering, his vision still flickering.  _Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake_... he begged himself. Maverick started to half-walk, half-drag him out of the room, forcing Neal to press weight onto his leg. He groaned through his teeth and nearly fell. Maverick paid no notice. He dragged Neal down the hallway like the conman weighed nothing. Neal let him, lacking the strength to fight.

_Peter..._

Maverick led him to a short staircase. Neal swallowed. Maverick didn't slow enough to give Neal time to climb the stairs gingerly, and Neal grunted with each painful step. He felt dizzy and sick, the room spinning and darkening before him.

Neal shut his eyes, allowing Maverick to take more of his weight. At this point he didn't care where they were taking him. He didn't care if they killed him.  _Just make the pain stop._

After a few minutes, Neal was suddenly released, and he fell to the floor. His eyes shot open, pain erupting in his ribs as he hit the ground. His vision did black out that time, and for a terrifying second Neal couldn't see. He blinked fast, his eyes burning as he clung to his consciousness.  _Stay awake_. The darkness faded, leaving only blurry shapes to follow.

Vaguely, Neal surveyed his surroundings as his vision pieced partially back together. He was in the atrium of the bank, lying on cold marble. Next to him stood another hallway, lined with doors. The cold of the marble felt good. Felt  _so_  good.

Maverick walked away from him, and Neal was silently grateful Maverick didn't make him sit up. He wasn't sure he could. Neal was still, his breathing slow. He shut his eyes, allowing himself to rest for a moment, just trying to allow his ribs to stop burning and his head to stop pounding.

"Is it set?" asked Allen from far away.

"Yeah, he set them before he left." replied Maverick. "Though he wants more money. He said he didn't sign on to wire explosives."

Neal's eyes shot open.  _Explosives?_

"We'll both be long gone by the time he comes asking again," laughed Allen. "He didn't sign on for getting his bank burnt down either, so he'll be in for a mighty surprise."

Neal's heart thudded. They were going to burn down the bank.

Neal shut his eyes as pain tore through his head.

_Peter... where are you?_

"How long until the drive is done?" asked Maverick.

"Any second now. I'll go check again." Neal heard Allen's footsteps fade.

Neal looked around. He slowly shifted his weight, trying to push himself up, watching as Maverick turned his back. It took him a scary amount of time just to lift himself inches off the floor. He could hardly hold himself up. His arms were shaking and the room swam and tilted so much he thought he'd be sick. He lowered himself back to the ground, doing his best just to keep his head up.

He blinked, searching for a door. He didn't see one, just desks in cubicles, and doorways leading off into hallways. Hallways that tilted and turned and spun.

Neal pressed one hand to the floor, taking a breath, and pushed himself up. A sharp pain erupted in his side, making him fall roughly back to the ground. He bit his tongue, resting his head against the cool marble, trying to settle the spinning.

He had to get up. Maverick's back was turned; if Neal could just make it to the hallway...

Neal lifted his head, looking at the hallway. It was maybe ten feet to his left. He slowly inched himself backward, trying to avoid jostling his ribs as much as he could, but it was nearly impossible. He held his breath, moving another few inches backward. His shoulders grazed the wall behind him. Using it to support him, he slowly slid up the wall, his face white with pain.

Neal looked to his left, breathing hard. He was about to slide down the wall, toward the hallway, when he saw something light up in the corner of his eye. Unsure if he wanted to, Neal slowly turned his head, and froze.

C4. And a lot of it. Maverick had placed it carefully on an empty desk in the cubicle across from Neal. A red light was flashing on the side of it. No, not a light. Neal blinked, trying to clear his vision, and realized what he was looking at.

A timer.

He stared at it for a long moment, blinking to clear away the blur from his vision. The clock was counting down from what looked like ten minutes. Neal paused, wondering what to do. Unfortunately, it was at that moment that Maverick turned around. His eyes found Neal two feet from where he'd left him, and Maverick's eyes narrowed.

Bracing himself, Neal watched as Maverick crossed the room toward him. Without hesitation, Maverick grabbed Neal's arm and yanked, hard. He pulled Neal to his right, away from the hallway, and a cry caught in Neal's throat.  _Pain. Bright, blinding pain_.

Maverick didn't move Neal far, maybe a few feet. Neal's ribs painfully protested at the movement, making him gasp. Maverick pulled a pair of handcuffs from his jacket.

"Borrowed these from your FBI friend," said Maverick. He snapped one end around Neal's left wrist, and secured Neal to grate to an air vent. "Don't even think about picking them."

"Or what?" asked Neal breathlessly. "You'll kill me?"

"I am killing you," said Maverick. "In less than ten minutes, you'll be nothing but ash."

" _What the hell did you do_?"

Neal and Maverick turned. Allen appeared in the doorway, fuming. He seemed to be trying and failing to calm himself down. His face was contorted in rage.

"What?" demanded Maverick. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the drive," hissed Allen through his teeth. "What did you do with it?"

Maverick's eyes narrowed. "I didn't do anything with-"

But Maverick didn't get to finish. It took Neal far too long to realize what Allen was going to do and it took Maverick a fatal second longer than that. Allen raised and fired his gun, the bullet striking Maverick between his eyes. He crumpled instantly.

Neal watched in horror.

"What did he do with it?" demanded Allen, turning the gun to Neal. "What did he do?"

Neal stared at the man, words failing him for the first time in his life. Allen's screamed in frustration, hitting Neal across the face with the gun. "What the hell did he do?!"

Neal coughed, his head throbbing. "I didn't see him do any-"

But Allen struck him again, catching him in the chest, knocking Neal onto his side. Neal cried out in pain, curling in on himself. It didn't help. More pain erupted. No position lessened it. Neal clenched his teeth, breathing hard, groaning in agony. His vision flickered.

"You are going to tell me where my drive is," hissed Allen, putting the muzzle of the gun to Neal's head. "Or I swear to god," he hissed as he cocked the weapon, "I will kill you."


	14. Chapter 14

Peter was running.

He had been torn between moving fast and moving quietly, but another image of Neal flashed to his mind, and running it was.

This Midtown Mutual was bigger than the other one. It had more offices, more hallways, more doors. It had enough different directions to confuse him.

But Peter was looking for the basement; there had to be a door to a staircase somewhere.

Peter's feet thudded rhythmically against the carpet. He was panting, having run through half of the bank already. It wasn't until he turned down two more hallways that he found the door he was looking for: to a stairwell.

Peter rushed toward it, ripping open the door and taking the concrete steps two at a time. He was going to get Neal. He was going to get Neal out of the bank and to the hospital, and Neal was going to be okay.

Skidding to a stop at the door to the room he and Neal were confined in, Peter grabbed the doorknob, and it turned. He opened the door and rushed inside.

But it was empty.

Peter's heart dropped low in his chest. Where was Neal? Where did he go?

His heart sank lower. "No, no, no…" said Peter quietly to himself, shaking his head. He backed out of the room and turned, heading back down the basement hallway and up the stairs.

Either Neal miraculously found a way out of the room-which Peter highly doubted the delirious conman was capable of doing-or Maverick and Allen had taken him again.

Peter kicked himself. How the hell could he let himself leave Neal? His partner was completely vulnerable and he left him.

And now he had no idea where to find him.

Peter ran a shaking hand through his hair as he rushed back onto the first floor. Where was he supposed to find Neal?

And that's when he heard it. A gunshot. His heart freezing in his chest, Peter ran, following the echo. He turned down two hallways, and heard a noise that chilled him.

Someone screamed.

And that someone sounded way too much like Neal.

Peter picked up his pace, running faster. He turned a corner, entering the atrium of the bank. And he stopped.

Only ten feet in front of him was Allen. Allen was standing over Neal, a gun pressing into Neal's temple. Neal was lying on the floor, looking even more broken. His skin was nearly transparent. He was shaking, his face pulled tight into a grimace.

"Tell me where the drive is," said Allen to Neal, still unaware that Peter was behind him. "Or I swear to god I will kill you."

"Looking for this?"

Allen whipped around. Peter stood behind him, the flash drive held high in his hand.

Allen's glare was venomous. "You!" he spat. The gun didn't move from Neal's head.

"Let Neal and me go," said Peter slowly, "and you can have the drive."

"Let you go?" asked Allen. "I don't think so." The gun pressed harder into Neal's temple and Neal cringed. He opened his eyes, staring at Peter. Pleading.

"Allen, you can have the drive, just let him go!"

"How about," said Allen, "you give me the drive or I'll put a bullet in his head." He looked down Neal. Neal tried to move backward, but Allen quickly kneeled on Neal's injured ribs, immobilizing him. Neal groaned in pain.

Peter's hand shook with anger. He watched more color drain from his partner's face. "Peter," said Neal weakly. "Peter, don't—"

Allen pressed his knee further into Neal's abdomen, crushing what Peter knew were broken ribs. Neal's face screwed up in an agonized grimace, his teeth clenched, fighting his hardest to keep the pain quiet. When Peter said nothing, only pure horror paralyzing him, Allen leaned more weight into Neal's side. Neal cried out. The sound was so broken. Peter's heart twisted.

"Okay!" yelled Peter, his face drained of color and numb rage burning within him. "Okay, you win! Just-just stop!"

Allen looked at Peter, and he slowly released his hold on Neal. Neal fell back to the ground, breathing harsh and fast.

"Throw it here." said Allen, and Peter obeyed, his eyes glued to Neal, watching as his partner struggled to breathe.

Allen caught the drive, and stood. He looked off to his left, and smiled.

"You have what you want," said Peter. "Now let us go."

With one look off to his left, Allen gave Peter an easy smile. "With pleasure."

Peter was surprised. That was easy.

Maybe too easy.

Once Allen was gone, Peter ran to Neal, dropping to the floor at his side. Neal coughed, his eyes screwed shut.

"Neal," said Peter, wanting to help him, but afraid to touch him. "Neal, are you okay?"

"N-no," said Neal, coughing again, his face screwing up in pain. "N-no—c-can't breathe—"

His ribs. The way he was lying was making it impossible for him to breathe. That alone sent ice cold fear into Peter's blood. Peter immediately put an arm behind Neal's shoulders and slowly lifted him up. Neal cried in pain, his voice cracking.

"I'm sorry," whispered Peter as he continued to lift him up, holding Neal's weight against his own. "I'm sorry, Neal—hang on."

Peter slowly lifted Neal to a sitting position, carefully leaning him against the wall behind him. Sweat beaded on Neal's forehead, and his eyes were shut tight. "Is that better?" asked Peter.

"Yeah," whispered Neal. Then, his eyes shot open. "Peter!"

"What?" asked Peter, whipping around, afraid Allen had returned.

"Peter, there's…" began Neal. He took another shaking breath, and said, "T-there's a bomb."

Peter's eyes widened. "What? What are you talking about?"

"Over… Over t-there." Neal slowly nodded his head to the right, and Peter looked. His breath caught.

C4.

"Oh, my god," whispered Peter. The timer told him that they had less than two minutes before it should detonate. "Oh, my god, Neal, we have to go!"

Peter was about to put his arm around Neal again, to help him up, when Neal said, "Wait—!"

"Wait?" repeated Peter incredulously. "Wait for  _what_?"

Neal lifted his right arm, and Peter recognized his own handcuffs, securing Neal to the air grate.

"Damn it," whispered Peter, feeling the time ticking down. "Neal, they took my handcuff keys, too!"

"D'you still have my… m'picks?"

Peter looked at Neal suddenly. His eyes were shut again, and his breathing had slowed way down. "Neal," said Peter sternly, fear crawling up his spine, "Neal, open your eyes."

Neal didn't respond. His head dropped further to his chest, and Peter's heart thudded. "Neal!" He shook his partner's frame.

Nothing.

"Damn it, Neal," whispered Peter, his voice shaking. He quickly pulled Neal's lock picks out of his jacket and lifted the handcuff chain.

He didn't know much about lock picking, save for the time Mozzie taught him. But that was a long time ago and it wasn't something Peter had practiced. Though, after today, that was something Peter was going to reconsider.

Peter inserted the pick into the small lock. Trying to remember what Mozzie taught him, he jostled the pick, hoping for the best. After ten precious seconds, he was still unsuccessful.

"Neal, please, wake up." he said, still trying to get the lock, working the pick in furiously in frustration. "I can't pick locks, Neal!"

Neal was still motionless. His face was drained of all color. Peter watched the cut on his face drip blood down his cheek.

Peter dropped the picks, officially giving up. He held his face in his hands, breathing hard.  _What do I do now?  
_  
He suddenly whipped his head up, looking around the room. His eyes landed on Maverick's unmoving body. There was a dark hole in his head. His eyes were open, unblinking. Peter's eyes traveled down to the man's belt.

Maverick had a gun.

Jumping to his feet, Peter ran to Maverick's side, and tore the gun from the waistband of his jeans. Running back to Neal, Peter lifted the handcuff chain, trying to steady his trembling hands. He straightened the chain, aimed and pulled the trigger.

The bullet struck the chain an inch from Neal's wrist. The metal snapped and Peter sighed in relief, just as Neal's eyes shot open.

He looked wildly around, then found Peter. "Peter…?"

"Neal! Thank god," breathed Peter. He quickly grabbed Neal's arm, pulling it around his own shoulders. He lifted Neal up, not even trying to be gentle. One look backward told him they had nearly a minute to get the hell out of the bank.

Neal grunted as Peter put strain on his ribs. "P—Peter," panted Neal. "Stop, p-please—"

His words tugged at Peter's heart, but Peter lifted him to his feet anyway, and started dragging him out of the room, and down the hallway, one hand holding the gun in case Allen came back.

"Peter," said Neal again, louder, as he cringed through each step. His weight kept pulling down, as if he was losing more strength the further they went. "Peter, what's… what's going on—"

"Neal," panted Peter, his arms growing tired as he carried almost all of the younger man's weight. He turned down another doorway, getting as far away from the bomb as possible. He had been counting down from sixty in his head, and was nearing forty. "Neal, there are explosives wired in the bank, we have to get out."

"Explosives?" asked Neal blankly. His lapse in memory terrified Peter.

"Yes," hissed Peter impatiently. He hit thirty seconds in his head. He pushed himself to go faster. He adjusted his grip on Neal, holding him steadier, and turned down another hallway. At the end of this hallway was the lobby, then the front doors.

They were going to make it.

"Peter…" Neal said again. "What's going on?"

Peter swallowed his fear. "I just told you!"

"Y-you did?" asked Neal, his voice growing softer. Peter shook him.

"No, Neal! I need you to stay conscious!" He picked up his pace again. "I can't get us out of here if you pass out again!"

"I-I'm… tryin'," whispered Neal. He became a great deal heavier, nearly falling from Peter's grip.

"Neal, no!" Peter took more of his weight, entering the lobby. He hit five seconds in his head. He ran faster.

But, unfortunately, just not fast enough.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh my apologies for the cliffhanger!
> 
> Aaaand my apologies for all the incoming cliffhangers.
> 
> xD
> 
> ~cosette141

Mozzie didn't like orders. It wasn't a secret that he didn't like being told what to do, but people told him anyway.

So maybe that was the reason Mozzie didn't go home, or stay in the car like Diana told him to. Maybe it was spite; it wouldn't be the first time spite drove him to make stupid decisions.

_Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it is always from the noblest of motives._

Mozzie almost grinned to himself as Oscar Wilde's words echoed in his head. How true they were.

Because Neal and Peter were trapped inside that bank with two psychotic killers, and the Feds were never punctual. He knew Diana and her merry band of misfits wouldn't show up in time.

He needed to do something.

Neal has moved heaven and earth for Mozzie, saving his life more than once. It was time for him to return the favor.

Mozzie peered around the corner. He had gotten out of the car and walked toward the bank. He was on the sidewalk, sitting on a bench at a bus stop, silently watching the bank.

No lights were on, at least none in the lobby. It looked closed. He saw two doors in his line of vision: the main double doors and a door in the alleyway.

Mozzie sighed, trying to think of the smartest way to do this stupid, stupid thing: to get himself inside the bank, take down the killers and find Neal and Peter—and the flash drive if the opportunity presented itself. But the same question kept resurfacing itself in his mind.

_Me and what army?_

He had to admit it; he wasn't a fighter. He usually kept to the background, controlling variables from a safe distance. This…

This was going to be different.

Taking a breath, Mozzie stood. He was walking casually toward the alley, when he saw the door open. Mozzie threw himself around the corner of a store beside the bank, on the other side of the alley. He peered around.

Thanks to his perfect recall, Mozzie recognized him instantly. It was Allen. Allen the bank manager was leaving the building in a rush. He shut the door behind him and started walking down the alley, the opposite way of Mozzie.

_This is stupid_ , thought Mozzie as he left his hiding spot, starting to follow Allen through down the alleyway.  _This is so very stupid_.

But if he stopped Allen, Neal and Peter's safety was almost guaranteed. Mozzie felt a sense of relief at seeing the man; if he wasn't with Neal and Peter, he wasn't hurting them.

But Maverick wasn't with him.

At the same time the relief hit, fear came too. The thought that Maverick had Neal all to himself gave Mozzie chills.

Mozzie avoided a puddle in front of him, careful to keep his footsteps silent. Allen continued walking ahead of Mozzie, oblivious to his tail. He clung to the shadows, staying near the wall of the building parallel to Midtown.

Halfway down the alley, Allen paused. He stopped walking, and suddenly turned. Mozzie kept to the shadows, keeping himself hidden in the night air. Allen squinted, sensing his presence.

Seeming to change his mind, Allen continued, walking faster down the alley. Mozzie followed closely. As they neared the end of the alley, Allen looked up, and Mozzie saw a van. His getaway vehicle.

He couldn't let Allen leave.

Summoning all the courage he had, Mozzie yelled, "FBI!"

Allen froze, and turned. He saw Mozzie come up from behind him. Allen gave him one look and laughed. "FBI?"

"Yeah, FBI!" said Mozzie, raising his wallet to Allen. It was too dark for Allen to see anything more than just the shape of the wallet, and Mozzie hoped that was enough.

Allen laughed again. "You don't look like FBI."

"Thanks," said Mozzie, putting away his wallet. "That's always nice to hear."

Allen looked around. "If you're FBI, where's the rest of you?"

"On the way." said Mozzie.

"Oh, really?" asked Allen. He raised a gun. "You really should have waited for them, then." He cocked the gun.

"Pulling that trigger would be a big mistake," said Mozzie. He eyed the gun, nervous, but kept his composure. Fear would get him nowhere.

"It would? I don't think so."

"I know about the drive." said Mozzie, the words out of his mouth before he could think of anything else. Right now, he just needed to stall the man until the Feds showed up. "I know what it does."

"Do you?" asked Allen, his voice dark. "Then I'd prefer you weren't breathing."

Allen raised the gun again, and Mozzie's heart thudded. There was nowhere to run. He took a step backward, wondering what to do.

And then the bank exploded.

Both Mozzie and Allen were thrown off their feet from the heat wave. Mozzie hit the wall hard, and he fell to the ground. Heat burned his face. A loud ringing erupted in his eardrums. His head pounded. Pushing himself up, he looked at the bank.

The ceiling had half-collapsed. Dust rose into the air, forming a thick cloud. Mozzie coughed, watching thick smoke rise into the air. Flames licked out of the windows.

And Neal and Peter were inside.

Mozzie didn't have time to get up before Allen yanked him to his feet. He hit Mozzie across the face, and Mozzie staggered backward into the wall. Mozzie quickly noticed that Allen's gun was missing; he must have dropped it during the explosion. Allen pinned him to the wall, his hand closing around Mozzie's throat. The air rushed out of Mozzie's lungs and he gasped, his chest burning. As his vision flickered, he thought that maybe just this once, following orders might not have been so bad after all.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.
> 
> At least I update fast, right?
> 
> xD
> 
> ~cosette141

 

 

 

 

 

 

It didn't take too long to get to the bank. That was Elizabeth's first thought.

Because she wasn't supposed to be there—and she didn't want to get in the way—she decided to find the backstreet of Midtown and wait behind the bank. Stay out of the way of the FBI, but still be there when they found Peter.

She was worried. Hughes and Diana were worried, which made things eons worse. Hughes had never looked at her the way he had at the office. It terrified her.

It was at times like these that she wanted to shake some sense into her husband and force him to take up a desk job somewhere. Paperwork, phone calls, filing. Something safe. Something that didn't force her to worry constantly about him.

But he loved his job; she knew that. And what's life if he can't do what he loves?

But what if what he loves can kill him?

Elizabeth turned down another street, her knuckles white on the wheel. She wondered what Peter would say if he knew what she was doing. He'd yell, for sure. It's what he does when he's scared. He'd be furious with her.

That is, if he was still alive.

Elizabeth tried to shake the terrifying scenarios from her mind an focus on seeing him. He was going to be okay. She was jumping to ridiculous conclusions.

And what about Neal? Hughes told Elizabeth that  _Peter_  was missing, but he didn't mention Neal.

If they were together, they were probably fine. That's how it worked; they had a great dynamic. She liked seeing them work together, glad to see Peter care so much about him. And not only Peter. Elizabeth had really grown fond of Neal over the past few years. They'd become friends.

Elizabeth turned onto the street behind Midtown, crept the car up to the building, and she looked up as it came into view.

She gasped.

The building had collapsed, half on fire. Her jaw dropped. She was about to get out of the car when she saw some movement beside the building.

Squinting, she realized what she was looking at. Two men fighting. Actually, only one man was fighting, hurting the other. Strangling him. Her heart dropped in her chest.

It was  _Mozzie_.

Without even thinking, Elizabeth got out of the car, running. She saw the men closer now, seeing Mozzie's pale face in the moonlight, his face contorted in pain, his glasses askew.

Realizing she didn't have a plan, Elizabeth quickly scanned the area, her breath catching when she caught sight of the gun on the ground.

She picked up the weapon, held it high, and yelled, "Let him go! Now!" Her voice shook and her hands trembled. The gun was ice cold and heavy in her hands. It wasn't the first time she'd held a firearm, but it was the first time she'd ever  _aimed_  it at someone.

Allen turned toward her, but didn't release his hold on Mozzie. He threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, sweetheart, put the toy down."

She didn't lower the gun. A window shattered beside them. She gripped the weapon tighter and said, "Let him go, or I-I'll shoot," she said, her voice unsteady. The gun shook in her grip.

"Honey," said Allen, his condescending tone both unsettling and angering her. "We both know you won't do it." And he increased his hold on Mozzie's throat, making the small man sink down the wall, and Elizabeth's instinct made the decision for her.

Her finger suddenly tightened on the trigger, and the gun went off. Allen screamed in pain as the bullet struck his right thigh, and he fell to the ground, gasping. Mozzie dropped to the ground, breathing harshly and coughing. Elizabeth nearly dropped the gun in shock. Shaking herself, she ran to Mozzie's side, putting a hand on his arm.

"Mozzie?" she asked frantically. "Moz, are you okay?"

Mozzie coughed hard and looked up, his eyes widening. "M-Mrs, Suit?!" he exclaimed incredulously, his voice hoarse.

She smiled in relief. "Yeah, Moz, it's me."

"Wh-what are you doing here?" he exclaimed, coughing again as he pulled himself up. She put a hand on his back, helping him.

"The FBI said Peter was here, and I was worried," she said shakily.

Allen suddenly cried out again. They both looked at him as he clutched his bleeding leg. Mozzie raised an eyebrow, and turned back to Elizabeth. "Did you seriously..?"

Elizabeth looked down at the gun in her hand. "I… I didn't know what else to do—"

"You saved my life!" exclaimed Mozzie.

"I shot someone!" she gasped as the realization set in. "Oh my god, Moz, what is Peter going to think?"

"He's going to think you're a badass!" he said with a grin.

"Wait—what are you doing here, Moz?" she asked.

"Oh—right!" exclaimed Mozzie, straightening. "Neal!"

"What? What about Neal?" asked Elizabeth, fear tightening her chest.

"He—He was kidnapped by this guy," He gestured to Allen, who was still writhing in pain. "Peter tried to find Neal, but he was taken too and they were both…" Mozzie swallowed.

"…They were both  _what_ , Mozzie?" asked Elizabeth, the terrified look in Mozzie's eyes reflecting in hers.

He slowly pointed to the burning building. "They were both in there."


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha thank you guys so much for the lovely feedback :) it means a lot!
> 
> I'd like to say there won't be more cliffhangers but that would be a lie.
> 
> xD
> 
> ~cosette141

Heat.

For a long time, that was all he knew. It was incredibly warm, as if he were inside an oven. His face was slick with sweat and something else, but it didn't make sense yet.

Nothing did.

Peter was scared. At least, he thought he was scared. He wasn't entirely sure. Thoughts were jumbled and turned around in his head as if he were thinking in fifty different directions at once. It took him what felt like years to recall what had happened.

And that was when he was sure he was scared.

Peter couldn't see. That, or his eyes were closed. But he didn't know. He was still very far beneath reality, just barely scraping the surface. As he realized it, he felt himself breaking through his daze.

The first thing he felt was the warmth. It wasn't intense, and he settled himself with knowing that it must not be near him yet. He knew he was inside the bank, and he knew it was on fire. He just didn't know if he was okay.

Slowly, Peter cracked open his eyes. His vision pieced together and he could see, but things were slightly blurred. Something heavy hung in the air, nearly constricting his throat. There was a dim orange glow to the broken room; that would be the fire.

Peter was lying on his back. Something was piercing him sharply near his shoulder, and Peter tried to sit up. He got a quarter of the way up when vertigo hit, and his head swam violently. He paused, nausea rising in his stomach. He took a breath.

Peter slowly turned his head. The entire bank had shattered. Debris lay broken in all directions, desks had fallen over and crumbled, walls and ceiling in near shambles around him, barely held up.

He looked down, realizing a desk was lying on his leg.  _That's why my leg hurts,_ thought Peter needlessly. His own slowness made him nervous; how badly did he hit his head?

Peter tugged at his leg and regretted it immediately; pain soared up his body and he gritted his teeth.

Looking around again, Peter watched flames lick at the doorway of the lobby. They were getting closer. He didn't have much time.

Peter shut his eyes. Immediately, he felt better. The nausea settled and his head wasn't spinning as violently. He started to lie back to the ground, when he opened his eyes again. He couldn't pass out, not now. He'd spent half the night telling  _Neal_  not to pass out.

Neal _._

Peter whipped his head around in search for his partner, immediately regretting such a violent movement. His stomach churned, but he fought to ignore it. His sight wavering, Peter scanned the room, slower.

Debris, desks, chairs, splintered marble and concrete. Dust hung in the air. The fire was crackling a few yards away.

But where was Neal? He'd been right next to him; Peter had been  _holding_ him for goodness sake!

Peter looked at the desk pinning him down. If he was going to get out of this, he needed to do it step by step. First step: getting himself free.

Then find Neal.

Peter pushed against the desk. It took an incredible amount of effort-and an agonizing amount of strain-to get it to move even a fraction of an inch. The moment the weight lifted, a sharp pain erupted in his leg and he cringed, biting his tongue. Peter tasted blood in his mouth. He pushed harder, his fingers slipping on the wood, his skin slick with sweat; the air was getting hotter.

Realizing he wasn't getting anywhere, Peter let go of the desk and it fell back on his leg, making him cry out. He dropped back to the ground, and thinking of a better idea, used his free leg to push against the desk. It worked surprisingly quick. The desk lifted off his leg, and Peter couldn't hold in an agonized yell. He heaved the broken pieces off of him and roughly pushed himself back up. His leg burned. Looking down at it, Peter saw the wide rips in his pants and blood spilling onto the floor.

Breathing heavily in the thin air, Peter looked around again. His head was throbbing dully.  _Where the hell was Neal?_

He ran a hand through his hair, looking wildly around, angering his headache. When he pulled his hand back, his fingers were covered in fresh blood.

Peter slowly pulled himself up. It was a long process. He quickly discovered he'd broken his leg in at least two places, the blood still flowing freely. Luckily, his left leg was fine. His side and shoulder were bruised from his landing, and he knew he hit his head, he just didn't know how badly. His delayed thinking and the surreality of the situation told him it definitely wasn't good.

Using the desk he'd pushed off to the side, Peter pulled himself up, avoiding using his right leg. Now upright, it was as if the crackling flames were louder. He looked ahead of him, where the front doors were. Smoke circled over his head. Vertigo hit again, and Peter hung on to the desk in front of him. The room blurred together and for a terrifying second, he thought he was going to pass out.

Taking a shaking breath to steady himself, Peter slowly straightened up again. His vision still didn't clear. He was losing it.

 _No, no, no,_ thought Peter desperately in his head.  _I have to find Neal._

But, already, he knew it wasn't possible. He could barely see. The floor was sea of black.

"Neal!" yelled Peter, but his voice was hoarse and dust coated his throat. He coughed, nearly losing his balance again. He didn't even know if he'd spoken or whispered his partner's name. "Neal! Where are you?" he called again, louder.

Suddenly, something flashed in the corner of Peter's vision. At first, he thought it was stars falling before his eyes to warn him he was going to lose consciousness. But it wasn't. Blinking the blood from his eyes, Peter turned his head. The flashing he'd seen wasn't in his imagination.

They were police cars.

The FBI was here. Mozzie must have come through for him and Neal after all.

With newfound hope, Peter shifted his grip on the desk and pulled himself a few feet closer to the front doors. Again, hating the idea of leaving his partner, Peter knew that there was no way he could find Neal in his state. And even if he  _did_  find Neal, there was no way Peter was going to be able to help him escape. He would get the team outside to find him. They had flashlights. They knew what they were doing.

They would save Neal.

He pulled himself another few feet closer to the main doors. Luckily, this wall and these doors stayed mostly intact, and hadn't completely crumbled from the explosion. In the dim lighting, Peter could see just how low the ceiling was hanging; it was maybe mere feet above his head rather than the dozens of feet it normally would have. Claustrophobia suddenly pressed into him.

Pulling himself along again, Peter reached the edge of the desk. He still needed something to lean on, something to keep him steady. Looking ahead of him, there was still a good ten feet to cover until he reached the door. But the next broken shard of the ceiling was lying right next to the front doors, ten feet away.

Preparing himself, Peter wavered on his good leg, one hand still steadying himself with the desk. Taking a shaking breath, he lunged forward, attempting to hop on his good leg. But he hadn't been ready for the world to tilt sideways in his confused mind.

He hit the ground hard, landing on his bad leg, and he cried out, his voice barely rising above the crackling. Gasping, Peter pushed himself back up, crawling his way to the front doors.

 _Why haven't I tried crawling the entire time?_ he wondered, hating how behind his mind was. He made it to the front door, and lifting himself on his good knee, Peter banged on the glass. It was warm. The heat in the room seemed to travel quickly. Too quickly.

And Neal was still somewhere inside.

Peter's heart twisted and he banged harder, feeling the glass break beneath his fist. Cool air rushed into the building, and Peter shoved the door open, falling forward through the doorway.

 _No,_ he begged in his head as he hit the ground, barely even feeling it. Footsteps drummed on the ground, lights flashed in the distance and people were yelling, so close to him yet so, so far away. Peter shut his eyes and reality slowly, finally, slipped away.

* * *

Diana used to think she was responsible. She really did. She also used to think that her car could only hit 90 mph, but somehow it was pushing 100 mph.

Jones' knuckles were white, grasping onto his seatbelt. She knew he was terrified by the speed, but she also knew he wasn't going to make any effort to try and slow her down. They both knew why they were driving at a fatal speed.

Peter and Neal were in trouble.

Diana was past angry. Past outraged. Past furious. She was  _livid_. Already, the FBI had taken  _way_ too long to respond to their orders. Maybe it was fifteen minutes to them, but fifteen minutes could mean the difference between life and death. Mere  _seconds_ could.

She'd tried to leave the minute she got out of the elevator but the teams had to be organized, orders had to be given, structure had to be maintained. She didn't have time for structure, and that was something government agents didn't like hearing.

But here they were, hurtling down Forest Avenue, and Diana and Jones both seemed to see it at the very same moment. They gasped. The building was destroyed. Thick smoke twisted into the sky.

Slamming on the brakes in the parking lot, Diana jumped out of the car, Jones right beside her, gaping. They sprinted to the front doors, where a group of agents were crowded. Diana shoved past them all and looked at the ground.

It was Peter.

"Oh, my  _god_ ," she breathed, dropping to her knees. A medic was right beside him. Diana turned to her and asked, "Is he..?"

"He's alive," she said, unzipping a bag beside her. "He'll be okay, but we need to get him to a hospital. He just escaped the building a few seconds ago."

"He did?" asked Diana. She felt Jones behind her. They both looked down at their boss, his right leg lying at an impossible angle, his clothes stained and torn, a deep gash in his head, bleeding down his face. The medic started to bandage it. "He was… he was inside?" asked Diana hollowly.

"Yes, looks like it."

Suddenly, Peter's eyes shot open. He coughed harshly, and Diana flinched, startled.

"Peter!" she exclaimed, relieved. "Peter, are you okay?" she asked. Peter's eyes blinked slowly, and he weakly cleared his throat.

"…Di?" he asked. His breathing was stuttered.

"Peter, we're going to get you to a hospital," said Diana. Then she remembered something. "Where's Neal?"

Peter's eyes suddenly shot open, and he jerked upright, ignoring the wave of nausea from the rough movement. "Neal!" he gasped. "He's… he's still—" Peter coughed again, his face contorted in pain. "God, Diana, he's still inside." Peter tried to push himself up again, but the medic pushed him back down.

"Stay still!" she chastised. "I need an ambulance to pull up right now!" she yelled.

" _No_ ," stressed Peter, again, trying to get up.

"He's in the building?" asked Diana hollowly, looking up at the burning mess. "Right now?"

" _Yes,"_ exclaimed Peter. "Please, someone needs to… to find him—"

"Peter!"

Peter didn't bother looking up; he knew Hughes' voice anywhere. Hughes had rushed over. "Peter, are you alright?"

"Neal—Neal is inside the building, Reese," panted Peter.  _Why wasn't anyone listening to him?_ "You need to send a team in there, get him out—"

"Sir," said an unfamiliar voice to Hughes. "I can't send a team into that building, it's too unstable."

Peter jerked upright again. His vision swayed. "No! Neal is in there, someone has to—"

"Peter!" exclaimed Hughes, firmly putting a hand on Peter's shoulder. "There's only a small chance that Caffrey is still even—"

"He's alive, Reese!"

"Did you see him?"

"No, I—"

"We can't risk the lives of these agents over the life a criminal, Peter!"

"Reese,  _please_ —" He was begging. He couldn't help it. It was  _Neal_  for goodness sake, and they wanted to leave him inside to die.

"I'll go in." said Jones suddenly.

"So will I," said Diana. They both stood.

"No." said Hughes firmly. "No one is going in. I'm… I'm sorry, Peter, we can't—"

"Reese, it's  _Neal_!" whispered Peter, his strength draining. "You can't just sit here… sit here, and let him die!" His voice broke off, somewhere between a sob and a cry of pain. The medic was stabilizing his leg. The agony grew, consuming his every nerve. He gritted his teeth, feeling his strength dissipate. He was falling hard and fast, his senses quickly and quietly disappearing. His grasp on reality had let go, the grasp he'd been trying so hard to hang on to, and he was falling into the dark depths of his own mind, thinking only one last, defeated thought.

_I'm sorry, Neal._


	18. Chapter 18

Neal opened his eyes.

Something was wrong. He knew something was wrong; it was just a feeling. He couldn't quite explain it. Call it instinct.

It was warm. His cheeks felt hot, but in a good way. Comforting, even. Because his head felt as if someone had banged it against concrete for hours. So, warm was good. He could rest.

He felt a strong pressure above him, pushing him down. That was what gave him that feeling, that ice-cold feeling that something was very, very wrong. But, for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to care. He didn't have the strength to wonder why. For the first time in his life, Neal didn't feel the need to understand everything. He didn't need to know what was pushing him down, further into the floor, he didn't need to know why his breathing was slow and ragged, he didn't need to know why the air warmed the skin on his face.

That is, until it started to burn.

The air was suddenly piercing. Trying to stop it from heating his face so harshly, Neal tried to move his hand to cover his eyes. But the moment he tried to shift his hand, he realized he was immobilized. Restrained.

Buried.

Neal's mind suddenly raced, sprinting its way back to reality, and suddenly everything became real. The pressure on his chest, pushing him down heavily, his injured side shifting from mere pain to unbearable agony. Neal tried to scream but something was constricting his throat, something like dust or soot, and he weakly coughed, feeling choked.

It was pitch black. Whatever was lying on top of him was shielding him from his surroundings. Neal's heart suddenly cantered in his chest, as he realized exactly where he was, and exactly why it was suddenly so hot.

He was in the middle of a fire, beneath a crumbled building that was determined to crush him.

Using every ounce of energy he could summon, Neal shoved upward on what was holding him down. To his relief, it began to shift off of him. The moment it left his abdomen, the pain in his side tripled and he screamed another soundless cry.

Breathing harshly, his eyes searching wildly in the darkness, Neal pushed upward again. Faintly, he heard something that nearly made him drop it back down.

"Neal! Where are you?"

Peter. Peter was searching for him. Neal tried to yell back, but again, his throat seemed to be coated with glue. Ignoring his failed attempts at speaking, Neal shoved harder against it.

It moved another inch.

Neal breathed hard and shallow. After the fifth shove, light pierced the darkness that surrounded him. He was lifting it. Just not high enough.

Gritting his teeth, Neal pushed up harder, his arms burning and his side throbbing. A sudden wave of dizziness washed over him and he almost dropped it. But he didn't. He increased his strength, feeling it give away more, and it moved up a few more inches. The lighting, even dim as it was, hurt his head. Pain erupted behind his eyes, but he kept shoving.

He didn't know how long it took. Minutes. Hours. Time had frozen in his mind. His arms were nearly numb. But somehow, whatever was crushing him suddenly tumbled to the side, and Neal relaxed, falling back to the ground, groaning as his side burned and an intense pain throbbed in his chest, where the debris had hit him.

He blinked, turning his head slowly and gently to the side. Even the slight movement sent a wave of dizziness over him again, and he felt as if the ground was shifting. Trying to blink away the blurriness, Neal scanned the collapsed building. His eyes widened. The entire building was collapsed. Debris and broken shards of marble surrounded him. The only light was coming from the flames dancing around the edges of the room. Smoke swirled around the ceiling, slowly descending every few seconds. The heat was more intense now, burning his skin. Neal coughed again, wiping sweat from his eyes.

Another look told him that he was probably thirty feet from the front doors. But that wasn't what immediately took the front doors out of the equation; the fire consumed the entire area. There was no escape there.

Neal coughed again as the smoke began its descent toward him. He didn't know what to do. Where had Peter gone? Had he…

_No,_ Neal told himself. Peter was fine. Peter got out, and Peter was fine.

He had to be.

The thinness of the air suddenly caught up with Neal, and his breathing became even more shallow. He had to get up. He had to get up, and find a way out. He couldn't just give up. He wasn't going to die; he was going to be okay.

He promised Peter and Mozzie that.

Neal took a short breath, and pushed himself up. He cried out, his voice finally breaking whatever barrier that had stopped him before. He grasped his side as the pain burned. There was no way that getting up was going to be easy, not with broken ribs. The only thing keeping him moving at this point was raw adrenaline. Neal took another shallow breath, and pulled the collar of his shirt over his nose and mouth as the smoke came closer.

The flames were near. He didn't have much time. Turning his head, fighting an intense wave of vertigo, Neal looked for an exit. He knew there was a door that led to the alley—it had to be here somewhere.

Neal squinted, his vision blurring and moving. Flames devoured the entire wall across from him, but not the one he was staring at.

Nor the side exit that his gaze landed on.

Heart beating in a fury of hope, Neal grabbed onto the broken wall in front of him, a sharp slab of stone, and he hoisted himself up, screaming through his teeth. The jagged edge of the wall cut into his hand as he leaned his weight onto it. Ignoring the fresh pain, Neal shifted his hand forward, blood staining the stone, and he stepped with his leg, temporarily forgetting he'd been shot.

Neal let out a strangled cry as his leg gave away and he fell back to the ground, striking the marble hard. His vision flickered. He shut his eyes, trying to work up the strength to push himself back up. The door was mere feet away. He could make it.

Neal felt a sudden piercing pain on his arm, and his head whipped down, terror coursing through his veins; his jacket was on fire. He cried out again, twisting up to his knees, ripping the jacket off his body and throwing it. He fell back against the broken stone wall, his chest rising and falling abnormally fast. His head swam violently and he fought the nausea that rose in his stomach. Neal looked down at his arm, and saw a dark red line of burns running down his skin. " _God,"_ he whispered, as the heated air angered the burns. Blinking sweat from his eyes, Neal shifted his way toward the door, using the broken wall to keep him steady as the very earth seemed to shift beneath him.

He moved along the wall again, and was two feet from the door. Not even attempting to prepare for it, Neal lunged at the door, hitting it hard and he grunted. The door was burning hot. Neal fell back against it, sinking to the floor. His ribs burned excruciatingly, nearly paralyzing him. He couldn't reach for the handle. His consciousness was fading. With his arm, he banged on the door, hard, wishing it would just break down like the rest of the building. But it held strong, and only seemed to get hotter.

His strength was waning.

He hesitated in his attack on the door and was still. Leaning there, collapsed against the back of the door. The heat from the room spreading through the walls, piercing the thin material of his shirt and burning his back. The room so blurry it was only a mess of colors, of twisting blood red and rich black. It moved around him both in silence and in chaos.

_I'm going to die_.

The words were silent in the back of his mind. Silent and real. And he knew they were true. Sweat and blood dripped down his face. The agony that had been tormenting him was just melted pain, no longer fraying his nerves, it was just all he had become. He blinked heavily.

_I'm sorry, Peter._

He'd be mad.  _Furious_. Peter would never forgive him for dying. Not after everything Peter had gone through for him. He chased Neal for years. Pursued him and never gave up on him to this day. Neal smiled briefly in the firelight. His own father had never fought for him. For anything.

In a way, Peter had saved his life. Long before he came to his rescue today. He gave him a new life, a new purpose. Peter gave him something Neal couldn't have stolen from anywhere on the planet. Something Neal had tried to forge throughout his whole life, but never got close enough to make it feel real.

Peter gave him a family.

Neal blinked slowly. Not only had Peter made Neal  _family_ , he also fought like hell to keep it that way. Peter didn't deserve to risk everything to save him just to find him dead under all the rubble. Neal owed him that much. Peter never gave up on him.

Neal couldn't give up on Peter.

Neal blinked again, his eyes heavy and hard to keep open. His strength was nearly all gone, his vision blackening at the corners. The heat was burning, burning, burning. The flames crept closer while his attention was elsewhere.

Neal took a shallow breath, summoning every ounce of strength he had left. He banged as hard as he could against the door again. The flames drew closer. The air burned his skin. His vision was nearly gone. He didn't have the strength to hit it again. He sagged against the door, heart pounding in overdrive.

It was then that Neal wished that things could change; that they  _could_  be different. That he could keep what Peter gave him. That his wrongs and mistakes in the past wouldn't catch up with him now, that they wouldn't take it away from him, just like every other good thing he's ever had.

His eyes shut of their own volition and he couldn't get them to open again. The heat was suffocating. He could hardly breathe. He was slipping away.

He was dying.

In the last moment before the darkness took him, he thought of Peter. He thought of guilt and pain and  _gratitude_.

He melted away with one final thought.

_Thank you, Peter._


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone reading and kudo-ing! :)
> 
> And look at this! Two chapters in one day! I wanted to get you guys off that last cliff fast :) this chapter is dedicated to you commenters: Caseylf123, Suzanne, PurpleArrowzandLeather, pechika, robingal1, and CHRIS, (my apologies if I missed someone!) thank you SO MUCH I really do appreciate you taking the time to read and give me your thoughts. It really means a lot, so thank you so very much :D
> 
> Okay, happy reading! :)
> 
> ~cosette141

"What?!" exclaimed Elizabeth. She whipped her head back toward the burning mess of a building. "You said they were both  _what?_ "

"In—In there," said Mozzie hesitantly. His face was white. Ghost white.

"Mozzie!" Elizabeth grasped him by the shoulders, shaking him. It took him a moment to turn his gaze back to her.

"They're ash by now," said Allen, laughing through his pain. Elizabeth turned her eyes onto him, venom in her glare. Allen was grasping his leg, blood streaming through his fingers.

Suddenly, sirens rang in the air. Police cars were speeding down Forest in front of the bank. Mozzie and Elizabeth stumbled to their feet. The FBI had arrived.

They watched as more cars pulled up and teams of agents rushed out of the vehicles. Dozens and dozens of agents, tilting their heads back, watching the smoke billow into the sky.

And none of them noticed the three people in the alley.

"Mozzie," breathed Elizabeth. "Moz, the FBI!" She took a step closer. "We're here! Over here!" she yelled, but they were too far away and her voice couldn't carry over the sound of the crackling flames. She turned to Mozzie. "What now?"

"Feds?" exclaimed Allen. He crawled backward, but Elizabeth raised the gun again.

"Don't even think about it!" she growled.

Mozzie looked at her. "I like this side of you."

"Moz," sighed Elizabeth. "What do we do?"

"I'll go tell them." said Mozzie. He started to back away, when he turned around. "Elizabeth…" He hesitated, glancing at Allen. "I don't want to leave you alone with him-"

"Moz, I'll be fine." said Elizabeth, tightening her grip on the gun. "If he moves, I'll shoot him again." The gun shook slightly in her grip, and she hoped neither of the men noticed. She didn't want to shoot the man again. She didn't even want to hold onto the gun.

"I dare you, sweetheart," hissed Allen, and Elizabeth's hand became a fraction steadier.

"…Okay," said Mozzie. "I'll run. I'll be right back." Mozzie turned and ran, heading back down the alley. Elizabeth kept a tight grip on the gun, staring at Allen, not letting him leave her sight. There was no way he was getting away. He tried to kill Mozzie. Hell, he just tried to kill Neal and Peter.

Or he succeeded.

 _Stop it, they're going to be fine,_ Elizabeth firmly told herself.

"So," said Allen, "who are you, my dear?"

Elizabeth said nothing. She wasn't going to speak to this man.

"Friend of Caffrey's?" asked Allen slowly.

"Shut up." growled Elizabeth. She adjusted her grip on the gun How long was Mozzie going to take?

Suddenly, Elizabeth heard a pounding. Her head whipped to the side, following the noise. It was coming from the side exit to the bank. It was faint, barely audible over the burning building. Elizabeth realized what she was hearing; someone was pounding on it from the inside.

Someone like Neal or Peter.

Forgetting about everything except that one shred of hope that they were alive, Elizabeth dropped the gun and raced to the door. She pulled it open, and watched as someone fell backward out of the doorway.

Elizabeth gasped, looking down at the broken man who was struggling to his knees.

" _Neal!"_ gasped Elizabeth. Neal slowly pulled himself up, looking disoriented and startled, and even in the pale moonlight, Elizabeth could see the intense cut on his forehead. Dried and fresh blood stained the left side of his face, and he was nearly covered in soot and ash. His shirt was torn and almost entirely black. He was breathing harsh and fast, coughing incessantly. Failing his attempt to stand, Neal stumbled, groaning as he fell back to the ground.

He slowly lifted his head, his eyes unfocused. He looked at Elizabeth. Neal squinted, seeming to try to remember who she was. Elizabeth's heart hammered in her chest, and she took a step toward him. Neal coughed again, and opened his mouth to speak, when suddenly he was grabbed around the neck.

Allen had stumbled to his feet and retrieved the gun Elizabeth had dropped. He pinned Neal to him with one arm, lifting him to his feet. Neal cried out in pain, a horrible, gut twisting sound, making Elizabeth flinch. The gun was suddenly to Neal's head, and Neal gasped for air.

" _Neal_!" screamed Elizabeth. "Stop it! Let him go!" Elizabeth took a step forward.

"Don't do it!" yelled Allen. "If you take one step closer, I will put a bullet in his brain! Do you understand me?" He pressed the gun harder against Neal's head, making him cringe. His breathing doubled as the arm around his neck tightened.

Allen took a step backward, stumbling a bit over his injured leg, and he dragged Neal backward with him. Neal sagged against the man. Elizabeth watched the conman's eyes shut for a moment, then weakly open again. Allen continued walking backward.

" _FBI_!"

Elizabeth turned as FBI agents stormed down the alley, black silhouettes in the night. Their footsteps thundered, competing with the roaring fire beside them. Half a dozen agents were now standing beside her. Elizabeth stumbled backward a step.

" _Neal_!" exclaimed Diana, gun raised high, now to the right of Elizabeth. Relief was plain in her voice. The constricted feeling in her chest lessened a bit.

"We have you surrounded, Allen!" yelled Jones, to the left of Elizabeth. All agents had guns raised and aimed at Allen. But the only one Elizabeth was warily watching was the one that pressed even harder into Neal's temple.

Allen took another step backward, dragging Neal with him. All agents' tightened their grips on their weapons. "Allen!" shouted Diana, taking a step forward. The moment she did, Allen hit Neal with the muzzle of the gun, and it dug into his temple. Neal groaned, nearly falling from Allen's grip.

"If you take one more step," warned Allen, "he dies."

"Allen," said Diana firmly, "if you pull that trigger, you know what will happen."

Allen's gripped the weapon, his knuckles white. Neal's eyes closed, and he tried to stay upright, tried to stay awake. Allen pressed the gun harder into his head. Elizabeth heard Allen cock the weapon. His finger curled around the trigger.

And the gunshot rang out, echoing in the still, night air.


	20. Chapter 20

"—only been a day, Mrs. Burke. Give him time."

"But… he's okay?"

"Just fine."

Peter lay silently, his mind slightly confused. He was hearing voices but he couldn't distinguish them. He knew one of them was familiar, but it seemed so far away, as if he were trapped in some sort of bubble, distorting his senses. He fought it, struggling to lift himself out of this thick, murky veil that had such a tight hold on him. He had felt numb for the longest time. Lifeless, even. Just a mere presence.

But the numbness started to wear off. As quickly as he welcomed this return to reality, he resented it; pain met him harshly. First it was his leg, a sharp throbbing. Then it was his head. He felt utterly bruised. Weak.

Suddenly he heard something—something loud and incessant. Quickly following it, he heard the voices again, and they were louder. Faster.

Comprehensible.

"—okay? What's happening?"

"Mrs. Burke," the unfamiliar voice said firmly. "Please, relax. Your husband is fine; he's waking up and probably experiencing some discomfort."

 _Some discomfort_. Peter wanted to scoff. Leave it to doctors to underestimate.

"Discomfort? He's… he's in pain?" asked Elizabeth. The noise—his heart monitor, he realized—was beeping faster as Peter continued his fast journey to reality.

"After what he's been through, I would expect he would be."

Peter suddenly found that he had control over himself again. Things weren't surreal; they weren't dreamlike anymore. He knew where he was; the sterile atmosphere told him he was in a hospital. Peter moved his hand. A soft material met his fingertips. Before he could move his hand another inch, he felt someone grab it gingerly.

He opened his eyes, and his vision pieced together. Elizabeth was looking at him, concern bright in her eyes.

"Peter!" she exclaimed. She squeezed his hand, and cupped his face with her other. She smiled, a tear rolling down her cheek. She slowly sank into the chair beside the bed.

"H-hi, Hon," said Peter, his voice incredibly hoarse.

She smiled, laughing softly. She covered his hand with both of hers, caressing his skin with her thumb. "Peter," she said, as if saying everything she wanted to say to him was conveyed in his name alone.

He smiled back at her. "I missed you."

Another tear rolled down her cheek. "I missed you, too."

The nurse was checking on Peter's monitor, which had slowed down. She scanned his vitals again, then looked at Peter. "Hello, Agent Burke. How are you feeling?"

Peter cleared his throat, and said, "I've been better."

"We'll give you a bit of medication to help with that pain," she said, gesturing to his right leg. He looked down. And saw that his leg was casted around his calf, and resting on a pillow. "You've fractured the tibia in your right leg." She pointed to his x-ray on the wall. She gestured to the longer, thicker bone. "It was a displaced fracture," she said, "When the bone broke, the two halves didn't stay in line with one another. It took nearly an hour to finish surgery."

Peter looked at Elizabeth.  _Surgery?_  "How long have I been out?" he asked.

"A day and a half," Elizabeth said quietly. Peter saw her fear deep within her eyes.

"You have a mild concussion," the nurse went on, gently, noticing the exchange between Peter and Elizabeth. "But other than that, you're in pretty good shape. Your leg will need to be immobilized for twelve to sixteen weeks, and your ankle and knee movement should be fully restored. But we're going to have to keep you here for a while longer." She gave them a small smile, tucking a lock of her long dark hair behind her ear. "I'll give you two some time."

She left the room, and Peter turned back to Elizabeth. "I'm so sorry, El—"

"Sorry?" she asked. "Sorry for what?"

"I didn't mean to worry you," he said, his heart heavy. He knew how much she worried about him, and he hated concerning her. "I never wanted you to have to get a call from the FBI like this—"

"A call?" asked Elizabeth.

"You know," said Peter, "that I was hurt."

"They—well, they didn't…" she stuttered, hesitant. She took a hand off of Peter's, biting her bottom lip. "They didn't… need to."

"What?" asked Peter. What was she talking about?

"I—I was there," she said in a small voice. "At the bank. I was there as it burned."

Peter's eyes widened. "You— _what_?"

"Well I went to the FBI to find out if you were okay. You never came home, and they sent a patrol car to the house. I overheard where they found you, and I wanted to make sure… make sure you and Neal were okay."

 _Neal_.

Peter froze.

The bank. The bomb. The fire.

 _No, no, no_ , begged Peter in his head. It couldn't be.

"N-Neal—" whispered Peter. Fear snaked around his heart and constricted his throat. "—is he... is he dead?"

Elizabeth's jaw dropped. "No! Peter, no, Neal's not—he's not dead!" She gripped his hand again as his head fell back to the pillow. He released the breath he'd been holding. Relief washed over him like water. Neal was alive.

Neal was okay.

"What happened?" he asked hollowly.

"Neal made it out of the building himself," she said quickly. "When I was in the alley with that man, Allen—"

" _You were what_?!"

"Sorry, sorry," she said, shutting her eyes. Opening them, Elizabeth quickly relayed to Peter her run-in with Mozzie and Allen.

"And you  _shot_  him?" exclaimed Peter in disbelief.

"Yeah," she said sheepishly, looking guilty and uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, I—"

"El, don't be sorry!" he said gently. "You saved Mozzie's life! And that bastard deserved it." He paused. "Wait, how did Neal get out?"

"Mozzie ran to tell the FBI we had Allen, and I had Allen at gunpoint. I heard someone banging on the door from inside the bank and I dropped the gun and opened it. It was Neal." She took a shuddering breath. "Peter… You should have seen him. I'd never seen anyone look the way he did. He was so…  _hurt_." She shook her head, and said, ashamed, "I was so stupid, Peter. I dropped that damn gun, and when I wasn't looking, Allen picked it up. Before I knew it, he… he grabbed Neal around the neck and put the gun to his head."

Peter gaped at her.

"He kept threatening to kill him." she said, a tear trailing down her cheek. She hastily wiped it away. "Diana and Jones came then. Allen and Diana were arguing, and then Allen—Allen's gun never left Neal's head. He cocked his gun—and—" More tears rolled down her face. "There was a gunshot. He and Neal fell to the ground at the same time. Peter," she said, holding in a sob, "I swear, I thought Allen shot him." She took a shaking breath, more tears falling. "I thought he killed Neal."

"He didn't?" whispered Peter.

Elizabeth shook her head, seeming unable to speak. After a moment, she said, "Diana shot Allen. She knew he was going to kill Neal, and she took the opportunity. She fired a split second before Allen could."

Peter let his head fall back to the pillow. He felt a constricted feeling in his chest, his heart incredibly heavy, thinking of his partner.

His _friend_.

The friend he almost lost.

"But…" said Peter, swallowing his emotions. "But… Neal's okay? He's fine?"

"Well—" started Elizabeth, and Peter's heart raced.

"What?"

"He hasn't woken up yet," she said. She wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand. "They put him in a medically-induced coma. They said hopefully tonight they would pull him out of it." She sighed. "He has a severe concussion, lacerations on his head, two broken ribs that nearly punctured his lung." She shook her head, forcing the words out. "They found a bullet in his leg. No major arteries were hit. And… and third degree burns on his right arm."  _Burns_? An icy chill shot down Peter's spine. Neal's arm had been on fire.

_In the fire Peter left him in._

Peter slowly lifted his eyes, and Elizabeth said, "They say he'll be good as new. But… he really doesn't look okay, Peter."

"I need to see him," said Peter suddenly. He started to get up, but Elizabeth's hand was on his shoulder at the exact same time that a wall of dizziness struck. He fell back to the pillow, head swimming.

"Easy, hon!" she exclaimed. "You're hurt, remember? They said you're staying right here until you heal a little more."

"El," stressed Peter. "I need to see Neal—"

"You will," she said. "You will, I promise, but you need to rest. He's unconscious anyway, Peter."

Peter sighed, defeated. "Will you let me know when he wakes up?"

"You are the first person I will tell." she said.

"Even if I'm asleep," he said. "You wake me up."

"But—"

"Please, El…" he whispered. "Please."

"Of course." she said, and she leaned toward him and lightly kissed his cheek. "You can close your eyes, Peter. You look like you've been wanting to ever since you opened them."

Peter had. Fatigue weighed on him. He nodded gently and shut his eyes, contenting himself with Elizabeth's word to tell him the moment Neal was conscious. He settled back into the pillow and felt her squeeze his hand. He squeezed hers back, and let sleep take him over.

* * *

It wasn't long before Peter woke up again. Two new voices had joined Elizabeth's. He knew them well, and he smiled even before he opened his eyes.

"Peter!" exclaimed Jones. Groggily, Peter looked at Jones and Diana as they entered his room. Diana took the chair next to Elizabeth's and Jones stood at the end of the bed.

Diana smiled at him, and asked, "How do you feel?"

"Fine," he lied. He did his best to hide just how much pain he was in. The moment he woke up, his leg began throbbing again. His head still felt as if it were stuffed with cotton. "I'm fine, thanks."

"Do you…" began Jones, with a nervous glance to Diana, then back to Peter. "Do you feel up to talking about what happened?"

Peter knew this was coming, and he nodded, then stopped, realizing that moving his head made things hurt a million times worse. "Yeah, and before I do… Diana, I shouldn't have left you—"

"I'm sure you have a good reason for it," she said, waving away his apology. "Now spill."

Peter recounted the events to the three of them. He started at the beginning, telling them that Neal had been involved. All the cards were on the table now. They were silent as he explained his absence from the scene of Neal's kidnapping, Mozzie's assistance, his meeting with Richard Graff and the reason why all of this had happened in the first place; the drive. That, they had known about.

"Yeah," said Diana. "Mozzie called us."

Peter's eyebrows shot up. "He  _called_  you?" he asked incredulously. His gaze flicked between Diana and Jones. "He called the  _FBI_?"

"Yes, he did," she said, grinning. "I nearly hung up on him, too. He told us that he followed you to the Midtown on Forest."

Taking his cue, Peter continued the story, telling them everything that happened in the bank, all the way up until the moment it exploded.

"I can't believe he made it out," whispered Peter, shaking his head. "Neal was so… delusional."

"I…" began Jones, hesitant. "I can't believe it, either. I've never seen anything like it, Peter. When we saw him in that alley… He looked like he was ready to drop dead."

The three were silent for a while. Peter looked at Diana, breaking the quiet. "You killed Allen?"

She nodded. "It's ironic, really. I've threatened to kill  _Caffrey_  for the past four years."

"Thank you, both," said Peter, "for offering to go in after Neal."

Peter had thought long and hard about Hughes' decision to leave Neal in the fire. Of course, Peter's initial reaction was appalled. But… he really didn't see any other choice Hughes had. Peter knew protocol, he knew that agents were forbidden to enter an unstable premises at any cost. It was suicide. None of them would have made it out alive. Neal barely did.

"We were still going to go in," said Jones. "But then the little guy came out of nowhere and told us he and Elizabeth had taken Allen down. And it just so happened that Neal was right there with him."

"I have to say," said Diana, "I'd never been so happy to see the kid."

"How… how is he?" asked Peter. It was something Peter hadn't stopped thinking about since he woke up. He wanted to see Neal, whether he was awake or not. He just wanted to see him breathing, know that he was truly okay.

"He's still unconscious," said Elizabeth, speaking up for the first time in a while. She'd gone a shade paler as Peter's story went on. Their hands were still clasped tightly over the blanket.

"Have any of you seen him?" asked Peter quietly.

"Not allowed to," said Jones. "Doctors' strict orders. His vitals are too weak."

"Hughes posted a guard outside Neal's door," said Diana hesitantly, and she watched Peter's eyebrows shoot up, and anger crawled into his tone.

"Why?" demanded Peter.

"To… make sure he doesn't escape," she said, her voice slightly irritated. "He's off anklet."

" _Escape_?" exclaimed Peter. "He nearly  _died_  three days ago!" Rage suddenly fueled Peter's chest.

"That's what he tried to explain to the Marshals," said Jones quickly. "He went ballistic on them when they showed up here, trying to cuff him to the bed. Hughes was swearing at them in the middle of the hallway."

"He did?" asked Peter.

"You're damn right I did."

The four of them turned as Hughes appeared at the doorway. He looked at Peter. "Peter, listen… I'm sorry about what happened that night. It wasn't… It wasn't a decision I was happy making." He stood in the doorway, regret deep in his eyes. "I wouldn't have felt right about sending someone in, and I didn't feel right about not sending someone in. I didn't... mean what I said. I care about him, too."

Peter slowly nodded, ignoring the pain in his head. It was a messy position to put Hughes in. Peter looked up at his boss, and took a breath. "It's over now, and Neal's okay. Water under the bridge."

Hughes smiled.

"What about the drive?" asked Peter.

"Destroyed," said Hughes. "The moment they found it on Allen, it was destroyed. Midtown Mutual funds are officially safe."

Peter turned to Elizabeth. "I don't care; we're still closing our account."

Elizabeth smiled, her hand on his arm again. "Already done."

Peter's company stayed for a while longer, then they all bid a farewell, and told Peter that they'd be back to visit him later.

"Hungry?" asked Elizabeth.

"I could eat," he said. She kissed him on the cheek and left. The moment she did, his door opened again, and Peter looked up as someone entered the room.

Peter smiled. "Hey, Moz!"

"Suit!" exclaimed Mozzie. He sat down in the empty chair with a heavy sigh. "I thought they'd never leave."

Peter laughed. "El told me that you both were heroes. You stopped Allen."

"Me?" asked Mozzie. "Nah, it was all her. I still can't believe she shot him."

"Neither can I," said Peter, smiling a little to himself. "She's… my wife is a badass."

Mozzie laughed. "I told her that's what you would say." He looked at Peter. "How are you feeling?"

"Pretty bad, not going to lie." said Peter honestly. He shifted in the bed, cringing as he jostled his leg. "But I'm alive, and I'll take it."

Mozzie nodded, his grin slipping. His expression was suddenly serious. "Thank you for what you did for Neal."

Peter shook his head, his earlier guilt crashing into him. "I didn't save him."

"Yes, you did!" exclaimed Mozzie, leaning forward in the chair. "You risked your  _life_  that night! Without you, Neal wouldn't be breathing right now."

Mozzie's words did nothing to ease the shame and regret swimming in his veins. "I should have stayed in that building and found him."

"And then what?" asked Mozzie. "Find him and  _what_? It's not like you could have carried him out."

That's what Peter had been trying to convince himself. Even if he did go back for Neal, he couldn't have saved him.

But it didn't make him feel any better about it.

"Look, Suit," said Mozzie. "Through my overhearing—"

"—eavesdropping—"

"—of you and the other Suits," continued Mozzie. "You told Hughes to let  _his_  regret go." Mozzie sighed. "Peter," he said, and Peter looked at him, stunned. Mozzie never used his name. Mozzie continued, "' _One of the most difficult things to think about in life, is one's regrets. Something will happen to you, you will do something wrong, and for a few years afterward you will wish you had done something different_.' You yourself said that what happened was water under the bridge, and it is. You promised me that you would bring Neal home. And here he is."

Peter stared at Mozzie for a long time. He felt that hatred, that blind contempt with himself suddenly loosen. Mozzie was right. Whether Peter did something wrong or not, Neal was okay. Peter didn't need to beat himself up over it. He did all he could.

"Thank you, Moz."

"No, Suit," said Mozzie. "Thank  _you_."

* * *

Peter was exhausted. Even his attempts at merely standing were enough to tire him out. It was a few hours after his conversations with Jones, Diana and Mozzie. His doctors assured him he wouldn't be in the hospital for too much longer and he would get crutches soon, but he was still told to stay put. With his dizziness, they didn't want him risking a fall and another fracture in his leg.

Forbidden from leaving the bed, Peter had fallen asleep again, but he wasn't asleep long. He faintly heard Elizabeth clear her throat. His eyes cracked open and she was sitting back in the chair beside his bed. "Peter," she said, and Peter knew exactly what she was going to say before she even said it.

"Neal?" he asked eagerly, jerking upright, ignoring the dull pain in his head. "Neal's awake?"

She nodded, grinning. "His doctors say he just woke up a few minutes ago. They say he's not quite coherent yet, but he… he asked for you." She smiled, her eyes bright.

"He did?" asked Peter.

She nodded. "They're going to dial down his medication and they say he'll soon be himself again."

Peter's eyes lit up. "That's great!" He started to throw off the blankets. "I have to see him—"

"No," she said, gently pushing him back down. "I already tried; he can't have visitors just yet. They said tomorrow."

"But—"

"And you, too," she said. "You aren't supposed to be upright yet, Peter!"

"El—"

"Twelve hours! And then you will be discharged and we can hightail it straight to Neal's room, okay?"

Peter sighed, defeated. "Okay."

She squeezed his hand. Twelve hours. He had to wait twelve hours to see Neal—to see that he was alive with his own eyes. To have the peace of mind that Neal really, truly was okay.

There was no way in hell Peter was waiting twelve hours. He grinned to himself as a plan unfolded in his head.

He was going to see Neal tonight.

* * *

 

_a/n: Onto the last chapter? I think so! Won't be too long! :D Thanks so much for reading!_


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the last chapter :)
> 
> Thank you guys again so much! I really appreciate all your kind words and I hope you like the ending! Can't wait to hear your final thoughts :D
> 
> ~cosette141

Peter opened his eyes to the darkness. It was nearly one o'clock in the morning. The lights were off in his hospital room and the building was nearly silent, but the machines around him continued to glow and hum.

He breathed in the sterile air, readying himself for what he was about to do. He slowly pushed himself up, glad that most of the dizziness had worn off, and his headache was barely a nuisance now.

Peter threw off his blankets and slowly moved his leg to the side of the bed. He carefully lowered it to the floor and he sat on the side of the bed.

Peter stood, putting no weight on his injured leg, and used the chair in front of him for support. He hobbled over to the cabinet where he knew fresh clothes were; Elizabeth brought them. He threw them back on the bed, retreated to it, and then quickly pulled on jeans and a t-shirt. He suddenly felt more like himself and less like a patient.

Looking at the door, Peter took another breath. He knew he wasn't supposed to leave his room, he knew he wasn't supposed to be upright, he knew he wasn't supposed to see Neal. But...

He didn't care.

It was probably Neal's influence that was allowing himself to break the rules so easily. Peter laughed softly to himself. Five years ago, he would never have imagined his life turning out like this. He would never have imagined that the fugitive he'd devoted so much of his time to chasing would become his best friend.

And he was going to make sure that his best friend was okay.

Peter rose again, and wavered on his left leg. They had given him crutches, and he picked up one of them from the wall. Leaning his weight onto it, Peter slowly limped to the door. He suddenly realized that being  _crippled_ and  _stealthy_ was nearly impossible. But he was going to have to try anyway.

For Neal.

Could he wait seven more hours to see Neal? Yes. Was he going to?

_Hell_ no.

Peter made it to the door, his left leg and right arm already tired. He peered through the window in the door, wondering how populated the hospital was at night.

Turns out not much at all.

He didn't see anyone in the hallway, and no one behind the reception desk. Elizabeth had told Peter earlier that Neal was on the floor below him, the second floor of the hospital, in room 16.

Peter eased his door open, leaning on the door frame. He gave the hallway another quick scan, then started for the elevator.

The hallway remained clear. Peter slowly made it to the elevator at the end of the hallway, and he hit the second floor. A moment later, the elevator button glowed and the doors hissed open. Peter limped into the elevator and leaned against the back wall as it descended down the shaft, and opened on the second floor.

He exited the elevator slowly. This reception desk was empty as well, but the computers were on, and someone's mug of coffee was steaming; whoever was on shift was going to be coming back very soon. Peter needed to hurry.

He limped quicker down the hallway, still awkward with the crutch, not quite accustomed to it. He passed doors twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…

And he landed on sixteen. Eagerly, Peter picked up his pace and peered into the room.

Neal lay on the bed, asleep. Peter pushed open the door quietly, and entered the room, shutting it behind him. He slowly approached Neal's bed, and his heart sank.

Neal almost looked worse than he had when Peter had seen him last. There was a bandage wrapped around his head, and bruises on his face. His right arm was wrapped tight in bandages. The moonlight through the window shone in the room, making him look pale. Neal didn't look very alive. The only thing convincing Peter the opposite was the faint rise and fall of Neal's chest.

Slowly, Peter sank into the chair beside Neal's bed. He looked at his partner's face, and whispered, "Neal?"

Peter put a gentle hand on Neal's shoulder, one of the few places Neal  _wasn't_  injured, and whispered, louder, "Neal... It's Peter."

Suddenly, Neal's eyes opened. He blinked a few times, staring up at the ceiling. Peter smiled, overjoyed. Neal was okay.

"Neal?" he asked, tentatively.

Neal slowly turned his head. He looked at Peter, and his eyes widened. "P-Peter?"

"Yeah, Neal," Peter smiled. "It's me."

Neal grinned weakly. He cleared his throat, then cringed. It took him a moment to speak. "What did I miss?" he asked, his voice raspy from disuse.

Peter laughed. "Well, a good four days out of your life. But nothing major."

Neal smiled, trying to shift himself up, but Peter put a hand on his shoulder. "No, Neal, it's okay. Relax."

"I guess…" started Neal, as he winced, his head falling slowly back to the pillow. "I guess I should have told you everything from the beginning."

"Might have saved us a bit of trouble."

"I'm sorry, Peter." said Neal quietly. He looked at the crutch that Peter was leaning against the bed. "You—You're hurt?"

"Broken leg," said Peter. Neal's eyebrows shot up and Peter continued before Neal could speak. "I got hit during the explosion."

"Oh." said Neal, his face falling. "Are you okay?" he asked. Peter stared at Neal.

"Am  _I_ okay?" asked Peter incredulously. "I'm fine, Neal! You're the one we've been worrying about!"

Neal looked curiously at him. "Really?"

Peter looked at Neal for a long time, floored. The look in Neal's eyes was so genuine, so… young. It hurt Peter to think that Neal was this unaccustomed to anyone caring about him. "Of course, Neal," he said gently. "Even Hughes."

That made Neal's jaw drop. " _Hughes_?"

"He told me personally." said Peter with a grin.

Neal slowly shifted his shock into a small smile. Peter wasn't used to seeing Neal with his walls down. He knew Neal was still on the medication, though they stopped administering it. It was different to see Neal like this.

"I never would have guessed," said Neal. "But, uh, I feel fine."

"Really?" Peter said flatly, raising an eyebrow.

"Maybe… maybe a little worse than fine." Neal admitted, shifting his weight again. Peter saw the muscles in Neal's neck tighten, as if he was warding off a wave of pain. Neal's complexion seemed even paler in the moonlight. Neal suddenly said, "I haven't been thinking clearly since I woke up. No one told me exactly what happened."

"Do you remember what happened?" asked Peter quietly.

"Bits and pieces." said Neal, his face screwed up like he was trying to remember them. "But it all kind of feels like it was just one really bad dream." He shut his eyes, trying to think. "I know I was kidnapped, I know… I know what happened there." Something shadowed over his face. "Bastards."

Peter's eyes momentarily glided over the bruises on Neal's face. He remembered when he'd first seen Neal, tied to the chair in the bank. The blood running down his face. His cry of pain the moment Peter lifted him. "They're dead." said Peter firmly, almost more to himself than to Neal.

"Allen too?" asked Neal, opening his eyes. "I think… I think I remember that Maverick was killed. We… You and I were in the bank." He slowly shook his head. "Everything after that is kind of hazy. I don't really know how I got out of that bank."

"None of us do."

"Was…" began Neal, but then he paused. "This may have  _actually_ been a dream, but… I think I remember seeing Elizabeth."

Peter nodded, laughing. "That wasn't a dream."

" _What_?" exclaimed Neal.

"She was there. She actually saved Mozzie's life."

"She  _did_?"

And suddenly, Peter was diving into the entire story, telling Neal everything about the entire night.

"Wow," said Neal, when Peter was finished. "I always knew Elizabeth was a badass."

Peter laughed. "That's my girl."

"I still can't believe that Diana was the one to end up saving my life."

"That's what Diana said."

Neal and Peter shared a laugh. They were both quiet for a moment, listening to the hum of the machines, and the faint sounds of the city outside.

"There was a moment," said Neal suddenly, quiet, "that I remember. I was in the bank, when it was burning and I was trying to get out." He looked at Peter. "I was thinking about… you."

"Me?"

"Peter, if it wasn't for you… I wouldn't have a life worth  _living_. I'd still be wasting away in prison and… I don't think I've ever thanked you for it."

Peter wanted to smile, but didn't. "Neal…" He hadn't told Neal about his exchange with Hughes that night. "Neal, I should have gone back in for you. If… If you died—"

"But I  _didn't_ , Peter." said Neal. "I'm right here. And I'm fine."

Peter smiled. "Yeah. You are." He gave Neal's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "It's all over now."

"I wouldn't be so sure."

Neal and Peter whipped around. Because the door was no longer closed, as Peter left it, and he and Neal were no longer the only two people in the room. Someone else had entered, and someone else had been watching. Listening. And that certain someone had a gun, held high in front of him. Peter's jaw dropped as recognition settled in, and he realized who was standing behind them.

And that man went by the name of Richard Graff.

* * *

_a/n: ...Gotcha._


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!!
> 
> Bet I got all of you with that curve ball ;)
> 
> Haha so this is the actual last chapter! I hope you enjoy :D
> 
> ~cosette141

Peter nearly fell off the chair. His jaw dropped and he gaped at the man standing behind him. He felt Neal tense beside him and Peter regained his shock enough to say, " _You?!"_

"Hello, Agent Burke," said Graff, in a voice that was stronger and deeper than the Richard Graff he met at the coffee shop. Peter's heart hammered in his chest.

Graff didn't lower the gun. He grinned at Peter, flashing his teeth. "Surprised?" he asked, his eyebrow slowly lifting.

Peter stared. He was speechless.

Neal recovered first. His medically-induced daze seemed to shatter, and his voice was sharp. Firm. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"Richard Graff," said Graff. "It's good to finally meet you face to face, Caffrey." He took a step further into the room, and Peter's hand grabbed Neal's arm, as if he could protect him.

As if he could save him.

"He—He was the previous owner of Midtown," said Peter hollowly. His mind was racing. "He was the manager when you—"

"—when you tried to rob my vault," finished Graff, glaring at Neal. The hand on the gun tightened.

Neal's eyes widened. He was rigid. Frozen.

Petrified.

"I would actually like to  _thank_  you, Agent Burke." said Graff. "You're saving me a trip upstairs by being here with Caffrey. You're making it quite easy to tie up loose ends."

"I—I don't understand—" stammered Peter. This couldn't be happening. It couldn't be happening all over again.

It had been over.

It was  _over_.

"You disappoint me, Burke." Graff tutted. "I expected more from the legendary FBI agent who caught Neal Caffrey when no one else could. And yet you played right into my hand. It's laughable."

"But—" began Peter, but Graff continued.

"You see, this drive was my idea, Burke. Always has been. And I decided that I didn't want to share my wealth with that damned bank. I wanted to take it. So I did. I stole the drive, and replaced it with a fake. I was able to take out small amounts of money without drawing attention.

"But then Allen started searching for the drive. He and that stupid thief of his spooked the FBI. I knew that if the FBI knew about the drive, they would close Midtown and close the accounts. The drive would become worthless." He grinned sickly. "Couldn't let that happen."

Graff took another step forward and Neal shifted involuntarily back into his pillow. Peter felt Neal's pulse race beneath his fingers. They were both silent as Graff continued, "And then you called me. I was pleasantly surprised, Agent Burke. It was a truly perfect plan. I meet with you, give you a copy of the drive, make you think that the accounts are safe. Maybe you'd destroy the drive; even better. Because once you and your government friends believed that the money was safe, that's when their guard would be down. That's when I would be able to make my move."

"—a copy—?" breathed Peter.

"A  _copy,"_ repeated Graff. "There were  _two_  drives. And tomorrow morning, the greatest bank heist of the century will be all over the news. Millions of people: bankrupt. But, unfortunately, neither of you will be alive to see it."

"You—" began Peter, his heart sinking.

"I took it all, Agent Burke." he said. "It'll be wired to an offshore account once I'm finished with you. And no one will suspect me. Why, the two  _masterminds_  of the heist are dead. I would also like to thank you for that; it saves me a lot of trouble."

"Look," said Peter, forcing down his fear. His hand on Neal's arm had tightened protectively and he felt Neal's muscles tense. "You don't need to kill us. We won't say anything. We won't stop you."

"You know who I am," said Graff dangerously. "I can't have that, Agent Burke. And I know a lie when I hear one." He sighed. "I really wish you hadn't been so valiant that night. It would have much easier if you'd just burned in the fire."

Neal's heart stopped; Maverick and Allen's voices echoed in his head.

_"Is it set?"_

_"Yes, he set them before he left, but he said he didn't sign on to wire explosives."_

Someone had given them access to the Midtown Mutual on Forest. Maverick had a phone conversation with someone.

_"We'd better move now, it's all clear. Just have to let him know."_

_"Good. Make the call."_

_"He didn't sign on to get his bank burned down, either."_

"Y—You worked with them!" exclaimed Neal. "You gave them access to that bank, you—"

"I used them." Graff grinned. "They were clueless of my intentions. It was only a matter of time before they went after the drive again, only a matter of time before they would assume it was  _you_  who stole it. And what a way to keep the FBI occupied while I went through with the transfer, breaking back into my old bank. Those government agents really should never have left the original Midtown bank." He shook his head, grinning. "The FBI can be so  _stupid_ sometimes." He laughed a dark, unsettling laugh. Peter felt Neal flinch. "And if only they finished you off once and for all, Caffrey. You nearly ruined everything for me five years ago."

"I—I didn't even know about the drive!" said Neal firmly. "It was Maverick who was stealing it!"

"And it was  _you_  who called the Feds."

Graff took another step forward. "It's over, Caffrey. I should have done this a long time ago." He cocked the gun. He raised the weapon. Neal shut his eyes and turned his head away.

And Peter launched himself out of the chair, tackling Graff to the ground.

The force of Peter's tackle had sent them both crashing out of the doorway to Neal's room, and into the hallway. They hit the ground hard, Peter landing onto top of Graff.

" _Peter_!" Peter heard Neal cry.

Peter didn't give himself time to recover, and he pulled himself to his feet, and started his way down the hallway. He staggered, a sharp pain shooting up his leg, and he fell sideways, hitting the wall.

" _Burke!"_  roared Graff, and two bullets sailed over Peter's shoulder. He ducked and slammed into the nearest door, which just happened to be the stairwell.

Peter looked at the staircase before him with a sinking heart. But before he could head turn back around for the elevator, he heard Graff's quick footsteps heading toward the door.

Peter grabbed the railing, and started down the stairs, trying to avoid using his right leg. He grunted with every step. His leg burned. He gritted his teeth. His plan worked; he wanted to get Graff as far away from Neal as possible. Well, he was.

But now he was after Peter.

It was stupid. It was  _so_ stupid. But he was going to do it anyway. Because Neal's life was on the line.

And he wasn't going to leave him to burn this time.

Peter heard the door slam open, hitting the wall. He'd only taken maybe six steps down, and he tried to quicken his pace. As he did, he nearly missed the next step, succeeding in losing his balance. He fell forward. Peter lashed out with his hand to grab the railing, but missed, and he fell, crashing down the rest of the stairs. He grunted after his landing, rolling off his side, gritting his teeth.

Seeming to know he shouldn't stay put, Peter started crawling backward, feeling Graff gaining on him. Peter snuck a look behind him and saw the man shoving the stairway door open. He caught sight of Peter and raised the gun.

Peter dove to the floor, hitting the tile hard, bruising his knee and nearly landing on his leg. His leg was nearly numb, sending a horrible pain through his entire body. A bullet struck the wall inches from his head.

"Wait!" cried Peter, on his knees. Graff stopped, ten feet away from him.

"Last words?" he asked Peter. "I'm a reasonable man, I'll hear you out. What is it? That I won't get away with this? That I shouldn't kill you because you have a family?"

"Graff," panted Peter. "If you kill Neal and me, you are facing murder charges of FBI agents—"

"Caffrey is not an FBI agent."

"He is damn well close enough!"

"He's as close to an agent as I am!" exclaimed Graff. "Do you honestly forget who he is? He's a criminal, Burke! He's just like me."

"Neal is  _nothing_ like you." growled Peter.

"You tell yourself whatever you want to hear, Agent Burke." said Graff. "But he will never be more than what he is. He'll never be more than what  _I_  am."

"He already is." growled Peter.

"But, unfortunately," said Graff, raising the gun. "You will never see him again."

* * *

Neal stared after Graff and Peter, gaping at the space in the hallway where they had been seconds before. Graff was chasing Peter.

He was going to kill him.

Neal's heart picked up speed, a horrible devastation growing in his chest. He looked down at himself, knowing full well that it took an enormous amount of effort for him to even  _sit_   _up._ Without his right leg, a level head and working ribs… there was no way he could get up.

Though…

He also thought there was no way to get out of the fire.

Neal lifted himself up, cringing as his ribs screamed. A sudden idea struck him and his hand shot out, reaching for the phone. He dialed the number with shaking fingers.

It took three rings.

"I said  _emergencies only_ , Caffrey—" said Diana in an irritated voice. Neal's eyes flicked to the clock glowing in the darkness, temporarily having forgotten it was the middle of the night.

"It  _is_ Diana!" he said, his voice colored with fear—something he usually never let show. Part of him wondered if it was the medication, or…

If he was really just that damn terrified.

Diana's voice sharpened. "What? What's going on?"

"It's—someone else was after the drive," said Neal, speaking quickly, shutting his eyes, feeling as if he were wasting time trying to explain it. "Graff. Richard Graff, that—the man Peter and Mozzie met with, the—"

" _What!_?"

"—and he—he just showed up—he has a gun—Diana, he's somewhere, Peter ran, he's chasing him, and I… I can't  _move_ —"

"Don't, Neal!" demanded Diana. "We'll be there in two minutes, we have a team on standby!  _Stay put_!"

"Diana, it's  _Peter—"_

" _Neal, you stay where you are—"_

Neal hung up the phone, throwing it back on the table beside his bed. He's already wasted enough time. Peter could be dead already.

Not even trying to prepare himself for it, Neal pushed himself into a sitting position, groaning. His face screwed up in pain as his ribs burned. Neal moved his injured leg to the side of the bed, and opened the drawer of the nightstand beside him. He pulled on a pair of sweatpants that Mozzie had brought for him, for when he began physical therapy. He didn't even attempt a shirt—half his torso was wrapped in bandages anyway.

Grunting through every movement, Neal was finally sitting on the edge of the bed, gripping the mattress as the pain in his side tripled. He breathed hard, his vision slightly blurring. He couldn't do this.

He just couldn't.

But it didn't matter if he couldn't.

He  _had_ to.

Neal painfully pushed himself up, holding the side of the bed to keep him upright and he stood, dizziness striking harshly. He nearly fell back to the bed. He hung onto it, desperately trying not to fall.

_I can't do this_ , a voice in his head whispered. He gritted his teeth, fighting it. He spent his entire life doing things that people said couldn't be done. That was the beauty of being Neal Caffrey. He didn't take no for an answer.

Ever.

Shoving himself away from the bed, Neal grabbed hold of the chair in front of him. His muscles shook, trembling with weakness and pain. But Peter needed him, and there was no way Neal was letting anything stop him from saving his friend.

Muscles tensed in preparation, Neal shifted his weight, moving himself from the chair to the wall. He fell against it, breathing heavy, barely holding himself up. The hallway seemed so far away. That little negative voice was stronger, taunting him.

Neal pushed himself across the wall, his hands dragging across the cold tile, leaning heavily against it until he reached the doorway. His leg burned and throbbed beneath his weight.

Cautiously, Neal looked out into the hallway. It was empty.  _Where were they?_ wondered Neal. Taking a shallow breath, Neal grabbed the door frame, and pulled himself into the hallway, leaning against the wall outside of the room. He started pushing himself down the hall again, his legs shaking.  _I can do this,_ thought Neal before he stumbled again. He caught himself on the wall, and he gasped, nearly falling. Pulling himself back up, Neal pushed himself down the hall. Looking up, he saw bullet holes through the door to the stairwell, heading down the stairs.

_Downstairs,_ Neal thought. Knowing there was absolutely no way he was climbing stairs, Neal stopped at the end of the wall, and looked at the elevator. He took another breath, then pushed himself away from the wall, and limped to the elevator. His head was still spinning, and he nearly tripped.

Neal caught himself on the wall beside the elevator, and hit the down arrow just as he began to slip down the wall. The doors hissed open and Neal quickly shifted his weight toward the opening. Misjudging the distance, he fell forward, hitting the ground of the elevator, his ribs exploding with agony. The doors shut. Neal blinked back the pain and suddenly realized he wasn't lying on the ground of the elevator; there was something soft underneath him. He pushed himself up, and his heart nearly stopped. It was his guard; the Marshal that was posted outside his door. There was a bullet wound in his head.

" _God,_ " whispered Neal. He quickly pushed himself away from the man, and his back hit the side of the elevator. He cringed as multiple wounds punished him.

_What now?_ Neal suddenly realized he had no plan. He looked around the elevator, and his eyes landed on the Marshal. He ran his eyes down the man, and a stupid,  _stupid_ idea formed in his slow mind.

Fifteen seconds later, the doors hissed open again, and using the wall, Neal stood.

And looked into the hallway.

Peter was on his hands and knees, ten feet away from Graff, who's gun was raised.

Both Peter and Graff's heads whipped toward Neal. Peter's eyes widened at the sight of him.

"Neal _—run!"_ Peter yelled, but Neal didn't. He only staggered forward, hands raised, looking at Graff.

"Caffrey!" exclaimed Graff. The gun turned toward Neal. Neal clung to the wall, to the shadows. "Here to make my job easier, are you?"

"I'm—I'm here to tell you that you're not going to get away with this," said Neal, as loud as his weak voice could manage.

"I'm not?" asked Graff. "Why, Caffrey, I feel I already have."

"They'll—they'll find you," said Neal, taking a step forward. "I've done the criminal thing. I've made enemies. It d-doesn't end well, Graff. I've learned that recently." Neal took another step forward. "If you kill us, there's a lot of people who won't st-stop until they find you." Neal wavered, but held his ground, his hands still in the air.

"I've made enemies." said Graff. "I kill my enemies."

"You can't kill a team of FBI agents," said Neal, his breath shallow. He fought to stay on his feet.

Graff laughed. "What makes you think that a team of FBI agents gives a damn about whether you live or die?"

"Because we do," said a voice. Hughes was suddenly behind Graff, and the door burst open, agents crying " _FBI!"_ running in behind him.

" _You son of a bitch!_ " roared Graff, and he suddenly took a step toward Neal, and then two things happened at once.

Graff fired his gun, the bullet striking Neal straight in the chest. Neal was thrown off his feet, slamming into the wall behind him, falling to the ground. Half a dozen other guns immediately went off, each bullet striking Graff, who crumpled instantly.

" _Neal!"_ cried Peter as he watched his partner fall. He jumped to his feet, ignoring the blinding pain in his leg. He ran to Neal, skidding to a stop and dropping to his knees next to an unmoving Neal.

" _Neal!_ " exclaimed Peter, his voice cracking. Neal didn't respond. Peter's heart thudded in his chest, and he felt tears brimming his eyes. It was hard to see Neal in the dim light, and Peter grabbed Neal's arm, shaking him. "Neal,  _please_ —" Tears rolled down his cheek. " _God,_ Neal _, please—"_

Peter's hand moved to Neal's shoulder, to shake him again, when he felt something under his fingers. Neal was wearing something. Moving his hands across it, realization dawned in Peter's mind, and he grabbed Neal's shoulder and shook it again. " _Neal!_ "

Neal suddenly coughed, jerking violently. Another tear dropped down Peter's cheek, and he removed the bulletproof vest from Neal's chest. "Neal, are you okay?"

"F—Fine," he said in a strained voice. He coughed again, and Peter smiled, relief flooding his veins.

"Neal," he said, exasperated, "how the  _hell_ did you even get  _out of bed_?"

"I—I couldn't, couldn't—" Neal coughed again, cringing. "—couldn't let him k—kill you—" He coughed again. " _God_ , that hurts like hell," he said, weakly putting a hand on his chest, where the bullet hit him. Neal shut his eyes.

" _Caffrey_!"

Hughes suddenly dropped to the ground next to Peter, and looked down at Neal. "Is he okay?" asked Hughes, fear coloring his voice.

"He's fine," said Peter quickly. He lifted the vest. "He was wearing a vest."

Hughes' eyebrows shot up. "He was wearing a vest? Where the hell did he get a  _vest_?"

Peter and Hughes both looked down as Neal said, "In—In the elevator."

They both looked up as agents dragged the dead Marshal out of the elevator.

"Neal…" said Peter, shaking his head. "Do you have any idea how  _stupid_ —"

"You were—you were stupid too," said Neal. His eyes opened and he coughed again, his hand curling into a fist on his chest. His face screwed up in pain.

"Someone get a doctor!" yelled Hughes.

Diana and Jones suddenly appeared next to Hughes and Peter. Concern etched into their expressions. "Is he hurt?" asked Diana fervently.

"No," said Peter. "Well, no more than he already was."

"I'm—fine," said Neal shortly, coughing again.

"Neal!" exclaimed Diana suddenly. "I told you to stay put!"

"You called Diana?" asked Peter.

"I'm f-fine, Diana," countered Neal. "Save your lecture for—for when I'm not."

"Why is it always you two?" asked Hughes, sighing. "Why is it always just you two that find the  _only_  violent white collar criminals?"

"I—I keep things exciting," said Neal weakly.

"Yeah, that's one way to put it," muttered Diana.

"You have to admit," said Jones, "he's not wrong."

The five of them laughed.

"I'm glad your okay," said Hughes, patting Neal's shoulder gently. "I'm going to find a doctor."

Diana and Jones followed him. Peter leaned against the wall next to Neal, straightening his leg, still throbbing. "Alright, Neal—think. Is there  _anyone_ else with motive?"

Neal laughed, then stopped as it hurt his chest. "Nah, doubt it."

"Trouble really does find you." said Peter. "Or maybe you just like it."

"I like a challenge," said Neal. "That's…" He took a breath. "That's why I liked you. Back when you were chasing me... I liked the challenge, and so did you. It almost felt like… a game. And somehow, I… I—I guess that made you seem like less of a threat to me, and more of… just someone to play the game with. You were good at it."

"Oh?" said Peter, raising an eyebrow. "You're admitting that I'm better than you?"

"No—No, never said that." said Neal quickly, weakly shifting his weight, cringing. "I just… I felt like I knew you. Like, really  _knew_ you." Neal coughed again, his fist tightening, and Peter put a hand on his arm. Neal opened his eyes and looked at his partner. "That's why I called you that night. I—I trusted you, even before I knew it."

Peter grinned, shaking his head. "Neal… there is no one in the world I would trust more than you. Not after this." He looked down at Neal, taking in his partner's weakened form. "But, Neal, you've  _got_ to stop risking your life like this! Even if it's for me."

Neal shook his head. "Peter—"

"Promise me, Neal."

Neal looked up at Peter, and grinned. "I'm not keeping that promise, Peter."

"Neal—"

"Not because I can't," he said, "because I know I won't."

Peter sighed. "Neal—"

"Trust, Peter." said Neal, quietly. "You can  _trust_  me."

"I do." said Peter. And he meant it.

"Promise?" asked Neal, as he struggled to keep his eyes open, struggled to keep his gaze on his best friend.

Peter smiled, tightening his hand on Neal's arm, watching Neal's eyes shut, and whispered, "Promise."

* * *

_a/n: :) A happy ending! I want to thank all of you readers, and everyone who reviewed, kudo'ed, and bookmarked this story! It's been so much fun! I'm already thinking of more ideas for new fanfics, so keep an eye out! I'm in the middle of one on here called "As the Smoke Clears" that I'll update again soon :D_

_Thanks again! ;)_

_~ cosette141  
_


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